FRESH OFF THE PRESS AND FRESHER THEN A NEW PERM

Morning of a Sun

Home again for the summer, I mimic the seasonal
Change; a warmer shift in temperament leaves

An extended lightness that allows me to be thin in
Thick, soaked sponge air of humid

Summers, myself in bed, past noon, Saturday
And I feel more free; my lack of responsibility

Sparks a lack of response, my sheets, sweat
Through with an indolent, abstinent dampness, I

Drawn awake, alarmed by buzzing of chainsaw
Cicadas; they serenade like melody of deforestation,

Beneath them, under a red maple, sways a
Compost drum, hung on wooden stakes to

Let the barrel shift, sift oxygen through leaves
And grass, allow air for decomposition, another

Name for the undoing of a poem, this black barrel
Raised on its hinges, points up; a cannon pleading

Neutrality or more likely aimed at the sky,
Timid attempt at shooting down satellites

In the kitchen below me, a kettle reaches
Readiness; its call is shrill and dry, antipode

To water drops that tear over the lip of
The kettle's mouth; sound of a fervent

Sad mother grief; mourning of a son, funny
How my mind sends back these pleasantries

As capsules of erosion.

kt