humidity

like a bird inside a folk song, the summering earth

is a tin can of blue sky. the traipsing powerlines

tie the country together and for what it's worth

that’s it: the hearted animals remember— decide

to come back to each other. bees bombilate unstuck

among the shaggy marigolds because there's a fever lacing

through some of us like galloping or bunny-rabbits fucking

which is to say catching light in the soft places

we're still made of. fruit of our bodies ripening under

the steady, sweaty weight of the pendulous sun— skin

and heat— your hand in my mouth and the brimming wonder

of our tilting blood teetering with having eyes skim

through an opening door of daylight because inside

of august even the broken water forgets how to hide.