The Fifty-Second Summer
The mail is junk, as expected,
and I walk back to the house alone.
Blue chicory begins to fade
at the edge of the road, under dust.
A starved cornfield flows in the wind
like the sound of water, gathering
to rush from a dark sky,
but this sky is faded as the chicory.
In sun the heat is a weight,
the shade as dim as childhood.
I think, July.
Jarflies hammer at the locks.
Love the imagery in this poem.
ReplyDeletefor me this is one of your most haunting poems. (this and "Lascaux: Virginia, c. 1968.") it is stripped nearly silent. until the last line. and then it sets upon me like an empty hell. i've been reading it on and off for the last month trying to figure out how you have done this,,,what it is that is working in the poem. it's wonderful. but i'm afraid to touch it.
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