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Harvest
Sunday, August 10, 2008
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Another summer 
tapers in the wasp’s waist. It finally dawns
that she’s not anywhere 
(cleaning the mirror, combing her hair 

in sympathy with the floating world...)
Then I won’t sing to her
of marigolds, obviously. How obviously
present, how inflamed at the edges

of fields where I labored (afternoons vast
as the parcel of silence
in the icebox at twilight). But that is past
& does no good. It does no good

to live in language, explaining
the rough stalks, the swollen tassels,
the irresistible methods
of grain, the blades.