Poet Laundry

  The last emerald summer popped hot in the pan— buttery, like sweet corn and tomatoes,   like the last sultry twilight I spent ...

  The lantanas are mostly deep green now— only just a few daring red buds. My quail chime, in turquoise and copper, is silent and st...

  I am naked here, arms stretched wide.   I’ve removed my apron, my soles are rooted, sandals tossed aside—   shaking my pap...