Sweet hyssop and the sweltering hives
from which sail bees, their resolute flight
into July, into my garden.
In spite of your aching body
Get up from your bed
And come to watch the river
Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.
Finally, a small wind to move the curtains.
Hot in this upstairs room. Outside,
the dogs sleep on the cool concrete floor
of the garage.