What strange light filters through the sex of a chestnut tree, leaves and catkins blooming and softly falling, sickly- sweet smell pressing into the warmth of thick July. Whatever’s dropped, I heap into piles and set on fire. Flames engulf, then slow to a smolder that keeps the gnats at bay. Smell of smoke, smell of sex. Sips of whiskey bewitch shade into dusk the way burnt offerings lure out stars and lovers.
The way the moths above us know the light / and will not leave it, circling all night. / The way birds wake before the sun—and still / resound for its rising, certain that it will.
