The Fires of 2010
Why talk
of time
zones, what
the apocalyptic
heat has done
for this summer’s
peach crop, all
the things I want?
Is the fall
visible from here—
through leaves
turned too soon,
the white glow
of a sickle?
Do you know
how last night
late (to think
of the morgues
in Moscow tepid
and packed,) I
unsteadily slunk
to bed (you
moving deliberate
in amber air,
scrubbing ash
from your
skin) alone?