evenings don’t expire in July
the long, branching arm of heat
stretches the sky
like a poem read by strings of stars
before sadness departs
and Elkhorn’s an absence of air
I hear porch lights talk among themselves
about the Lutheran Church up by West Dodge
the natural consequence of lodging
in silence so poisonous
it can’t expire
the raccoons didn’t even like the quiet heat
they were suicidal, splattered off I-80
a long, branching sun
a long, branching poem unread by still paws
I’m only met by sizzling quietude
a poem too crude
to operate its own vehicle
when stars are strings in paper skies
and earth hides from me
I don’t know why earth hides from me
where did I go? why am I gone to earth?
did I not go to church enough?
was the heat too lonely to love me?
I’m far, God- I’m a distant speck
on your right eye’s radar
don’t leave me with the raccoons
don’t leave while I have so much
to give up on