After Midsummer
The bath tub looks on
unbroken forest and
has a white hose
for shower.

Cold water it sends
down over my skin
leads me to leap
out of my dream.

Cheeks tingling, singing,
I scrub my smooth chest,
legs folded, reaching
the cracks between toes.

Today the bath room window
does not go abstract with mist.
I like what I see: green honey locust,
a little yellow leaf in the air.
In her new house she
tossed and turned, sleep
twined with the jackhammers,
jackals in the street
pickpocking concrete. She dreamed
rooting in dried-out fields:
bony machines,
huge black hoses, dust.

She called it waking
when the noise
grew more distinct, she lived
in spite of jackhammers

until the night
she dreamed the silence.
Stars fell and she woke to the
clean air, quiet street
and slowly
of light.