when i was young the shimmer sound of cicada song was the noise of summer. i was certain it was the sound of the sun burning in its slow toss over the sky.
as it rose from the atlantic in the morning it boiled off the ocean making clouds of steam over Brooklyn before crashing West.
* * *
outside, the gift lily is rotting
at the bulb. dust lifts from the surface
of the soil. when the rain comes down
too hard and too much. dirt grains
floating on the skin of water.
the rocks are smoothed.
the valleys are gouged.
the wrinkles are formed.
it carves as it cleanses.
then, thunder
like i haven't heard in months
like the splitting of my bones
after the jump.
the letter he wrote
hollows out my mind
and rattles for hours.
wall: june, july and august
built against the world.
