The season wears a windless dirt road shoulder,
                 a crop of lilies, fields as burnished brown
      as beach glass, bright beyond the stony odor
             of sidewalks wet from sprinklers. August: now
         and always never, deeper, best believer
in the lastingness of bees, and boyhood,
             rust-colored crickets, wet retrievers, teachers
      working in their rented rooms of plywood.