Of the Dead So Much Less is Expected

How delightful it would be to lie in bed and think of nothing
But how cool the sheets are and how hot it must be outdoors

This morning, the sky, loud-blue and cloudless, the sun now
Fully up. I only wish I could stop feeling sorry for the birds.

Not one decent splay of shade is there beneath these August-
Walloped trees-the birdbath: choked-out, cracked, a-wreck

With weeds—

                                           I think I read somewhere that certain
Birds prefer a dust bath, but that seems a wretched comfort

On a day like this is shaping up to be; listen: the wind's not
Even moving the leaves around; the grass is growing brittle,

Giving up its green. Birds bursting into flame in mid-flight,
That's what I half-expect to see when I cross to the window—

The day cracking down the middle—falling into the weeds.