Year Round

Two flags nuzzle each other in the desultory gust   

because they are   

fleeing the trees, who are cruel to one another,   

      shading their neighbors to death   

a mixed bag   

advocating small business in a loose confederation.   

The flags don’t give any shade at all.   

On the anniversary of our country   

we throw dynamite at the air   

we build into.   

*   

Daylight savings. A beeline   

to a sea lion, as the children’s song extols, or is it   

a beeline to a scallion?   

You hear your own accent—   

or   

a child makes an error to see if you’re listening.   

A heartfelt counterfeit.   

*   

A cough muffled   

in its own sputum’s   

repeated   

in the next throat:   

a family of coughs comes   

to couch in us   

while the sun rises   

over the church,   

treetops’ psych ops   

combusting all over   

the ground   

tasked   

with a snowdrop.