In white August, sun
browns an unburying path
of oval stones planted by
the farmer we never knew, treading
from a house gone silent
to a barn with no animals—his
chores ghost to the surface,
not quite here, not quite done.
June’s polybeat catbird
cadenza has flown, and in its place
cicadas whir and spin
looping tracks composed for lawn,
an intermittent pip pip pip
cuts high across gelled air,
summer lays-in grooves—
What else is under the turf?
And do we, the temporary,
really want to know who else
interred a booted stride?
Just turn up the sprinkler
to daub the peeling
post, the lattice trim—let’s wait
and see who rises, who’s here
when the heat turns down.
