Dispatch #74

June Lunes

from dust of dead leaves 
and tangled 
weeds, irises rise 





                                    at dusk, the corners
                                    of the field 
                                    collapse into gnats





the last night of spring—
the long light
still ringing the air





                                    low narcotic hum
                                    as night draws
                                    the last light through pines





the wordlessness we 
slip into 
is the poetry 

                                    the city’s steam plumes 
                                    drift against
                                    the grain of traffic 





even empty lots 
levitate 
in soft orange dusk  





                                    in bewilderment
                                    poetry
                                    becomes the compass





two in the morning
sifting through 
the dark for a word

                                    the forsythias 
                                    remind us
                                    this dream is lucid

June 2022
Easthampton, MA
and NYC