Tarred, tarried July above the finger-point
of by-law. Quiet men

are quietly roofing in runic arrests. Progress can be stopped

with only minor internal damage and a length of rope
short enough to miss the point.

Everything can and will happen at once.

Except the sun’s light, which is not full,
but an incomplete weave that covers the most
controversial areas of interest.

In a cab, you know without lesson it’s better to talk
to your hours-dead cat wedged into its carrier
like an overstuffed closet of furs.

It’s okay. Hello, Little One. Hello.

It’s better for everyone
if you decide it’s better for everyone.
There is the take-away. In coolers,

the dead become firmer in their resolve
to remain firm. At home, celery softens and pools
in the corner you regularly remember to forget.

Telephones funnel the regrets of future days.
Drift through

intersections like a planchette you’re directing
but would deny. The roads are being torn up
for new roads. Anyone could have
predicted that, even you.

Heat gulleys best intentions
and hours lean. Work crews
adopt fresh pace. You will find out
the work you do is internal. You will
undo it. A spill of vinegar into the milk.

Accidentally render both useless. You are being
closed into the hour like an exhibit. When the glass
comes down, a voice will say, It’s okay, it’s okay.

Air conditioners drone in precision flocks.
The air will last until it doesn’t.