JULY
Michael H. Brownstein
Heat absolves us of complicity.
A strength in wood breaks to dust,
A bird's nest empties into thread,
Nails dissolve to rust and tetanus,
Brick folds like charcoal.
A porch holds to itself until the hammer.
A porch holds to itself until the saw.
A porch holds to itself until the crowbar.
Shade and shadow are only foreshadowing.
Nothing survives the tearing of space.
A blackbird lived here once, and a beetle.
A squirrel made a home, and a raccoon.
Sunlight stutters like insects winging to light.
