ant5

 

May Day the refrigerator turns itself off

 

a screen door slams shut the scent of approaching rain

 

you haven’t called your hat behind the cushion on the couch

 

a vent closed for the winter the wasp on its side in the dust

 

a power outage in the matchbox just one acorn

 

on the dashboard the sudden sunlight glints off a ladybug

 

I open my suitcase and catch your scent again

 

one slat on the bridge still dark something that fell echoes

 

out of the rain I smell the rain a saw starts up

 

the gnat that was resting on my head she claps between her hands

 

where someone walked the grass has lost its blue sheen of dew

 

flickering incandescent light pinned by a bottlecap a cranefly

 

pretending I don’t know it’s there I ask about your tattoo

 

the smell of heather under the bridge the black water makes no sound

 

she says it’s like eating a pecan after having walnuts

 

a sudden downpour in a doorway someone’s uncollected mail

 

it’s still warm at sunrise in the empty tea cup a white feather

 

my tea tastes like your perfume birch leaves slapping in the rain

 

a shiny cherry wedged unblemished in a crack in the pavement

 

yellow dawn waking up to the taste of vomit on your lips

 

a slightly swaying chain dandelion seeds float by

 

in the car in the dark we stop talking the seatbelt rolls itself up

 

in the shade of a giant oak gas pumps wrapped in white canvas

 

the anguish of snails something to do with flourescent light

 

we make love I think about skeletons and batting averages

 

the tea’s steeping a phone message from the middle of the night

 

I see your name in the paper an ant in a drop of honey

 

the crow in the road refuses to move a thunderstorm at dusk

 

when I look back the light is gone from the blue pine

 

stuck in the milky thistle a few strands of blond hair

 

almost summer rain a part of the pan that won’t come clean

 

a few sparks leave the smoke and spiral up into the night sky

 

silence on the phone a spider darts out from the matchbook

 

without asking you write something on your hand with my pen

 

the lights stay off the warm toothpaste rushes from the tube

 

rummaging in the dark my hand finds a warm apple core

 

swollen in the shallow creek a novel open near the center

 

passing through the branches a few drops of rain hit the clover

 

the last train leaf shadows made by the flickering streetlight

 

reeds bent by a wet blue skirt the first bat circles and disappears

 

Fourth of July your sunburn turns purple

 

cracks in the asphalt still dark with rain the smell of roses

 

the only light on the one above the store I hear that wasp again

 

too hot to sleep she mutters about shovels and gazelles

 

looking at the veins on your hand I think about the planet Neptune

 

bits of paper fall from the book I found under the cushion

 

fastened by a tangle a strand of hair cuts into the apple peel

 

up through the pine cone on the patch of dirt a tiny yellow flower

 

between branches of the juniper a snail eaten piece of paper

 

the foundation separates from the house ants carry off a beetle

 

flickering lights your hair smells like pines in the summer dust

 

dusk turns grey and hazy and breaks off into several angry girls

 

through the screen door everything blue but the white phone in your hand

 

piled up on itself a silver chain in the dirt the apples are turning red

 

on the blanket on the grass a few magazines their different odors

 

other analogous rifts in your story about the plums

 

new moon here and there the potholes in the alley lit blue by tv’s

 

you’ve forgotten my name a tufted seed floats down

 

fluttering in the wind the papers on the board reflect the evening sun

 

rug burns on my knees I feel them in line at the post office

 

you ask me what it’s like to be neutral I tell you I don’t know

 

the house gray in the dusk where the sprinkler leaks a few weeds

 

now we’re just friends you change out of your bathing suit in my car

 

the river a deer wades across stopping for a moment to listen

 

feeling empty I let my finger find the sticky spot on the table

 

the spare tires under the stairs a dead mouse curled on its side

 

left in a paper cup a nail with its head broken off

 

blown down by the wind stiff white washcloths holding their shape

 

the seed embedded in a hole eaten in the wood has sprouted

 

in the folds of cloth a few pinecones their recesses still darker

 

rose petals of no particular color scattered on the dead grass

 

tilted on its side your shoe leaks sand the shadows are lengthening

 

ripping the paper into strips he stands up then quickly sits down

 

the water runs out of my mouth a little warmer than before

 

sudden gusts blow the willow branches across the lit store window

 

you’ve come for the money I answer the door in a towel

 

the room darkened by clouds an entire web floats to the ground

 

halfway down the stairs with the broken lamp I go back up

 

a crow with one foot pecks at pennies in the dry fountain

 

part of the teabag that won’t submerge I follow your freckles

 

the words I cut out from the letter turn up in your shoe

 

shining in the streetlight the sap bursting from the pine cones

 

your house you show me the books the bed the water damage

 

grown through the wheels of the bicycle blackberry vines

 

I try to think about what to tell you there’s a rock in my shoe

 

last week’s paper tearing open the plastic I find a beetle

 

behind your body a word written on the wall in chalk

 

midnight I smell a fire a fly keeps thumping into the mirror

 

where we slow to talk the grass a bit brown the war is invisible

 

August smog the wind ceases a few acorns drop to the ground

 

blue jays chattering some cherry pits left on a three of diamonds

 

in the dust in the corner the curling tops of tea packets

 

waking briefly I smell the apple I took one bite from

 

drifting among the shadows on the wood floor a white seed pod

 

a candy wrapper held down by a stone rustles in the breeze

 

her bloody toe three wasps circle the iron girder on the bridge

 

hundreds of brand names for less I swerve to avoid a black sock

 

a cricket behind the dryer from the doorway the smell of apples

 

at your house my body looks different in the mirror August twilight

 

the cashier’s working on a crossword puzzle I drop the walnut

 

wearing nothing but boots I listen to the crickets

 

hot night the shadows of the fan a little nauseating

 

a ripple across the curtains the note you started still on the table

 

August dusk the green lights in the parking lot come on

 

reading the lives of great people I shave a little more frequently

 

waking from a nap two red pushpins from work in my shirt pocket

 

the sudden downpour drowns out your voice on the phone

 

the last drips from the tea bag swirl darkly into the rest of the tea

 

cool August evening in the shopping cart some crushed daisies

 

a black summer rain between two posts a spider sways in its web

 

in the tall weeds a spoon and fork dull where the shade encroaches

 

over the warped fence a single cluster of ripe blackberries dangles

 

leaning your bicycle against my car you tell me what to expect

 

underneath the blankets in the closet a gumball still in the wrapper

 

swollen and leaking an unopened carton of milk in the russet weeds

 

following me from room to room a gnat tries to get in my mouth

 

slipping from the envelope the letter came in a button from your shirt

 

where the screw loosened from the outlet a blade of grass emerges

 

one tied to the other floating down the river a pair of shoelaces

 

some noise in the dark kitchen it must be the potatoes