Summer, newly over
It was like staring into a full glass
but then the sun went in. Each leaf has passed
through glory to something like lovelessness:
The bearded man in a print dress
flirts with a plastic duck
then gives it up; pushes
against the folds as though
he's striding, barefoot, through a lake.
His belly bullies his belt.
"I prefer forgiveness," she says.
She presents the bright tilt, like a lit candle,
of her neck. The coins we spilt
are hidden by the flowers; the coins' opposite.
A dog reads midges
like foreign type.
I want to close my eyes and listen
to the words. Just that: the words.
Still there, they gesture
out towards me, waiting
for me to close the circle.
When we destroyed the nest
how did the wasp feel, nagging
This poem is from A Brief and Biased History of Love, published by Culture Matters. Alan Humm is the editor of One Hand Clapping.