Drifting grass
hoppers, the wings off
drowned flies and frogs smugly
floating get pushed by the hot
wind into the corner of the new

swimming pool Uncle owns and down on
its bottom oak leaves rot
black and pale worms wave
hazy in their own
decomposing and yet there’s no

time for the work of reclaiming
the water. Each day blows
over too quickly to savour though each
one is ripe with the garden’s
wet needs. Among them tomatoes in

the eight ay em fog, the over
sweet corn in afternoon’s
yellow husk and the juice from
cucumbers still warm in green
evening. After each night

fall only the dry and
high insect noise hangs on over
the dried out soil and the only wet
need left belongs to the algae
clouded pool. That need grows

small under the dark that clouds
the sleeping time and the insect noise sounds
like the sound always does, spilling in
to the pool from the spring
water sky.