June 17

Everything is bolting
in the heat, sending up

last gasps, small
anxious leaves,

scattered and flowering,
even the greens

in the shadiest bed
giving in to reflex–

panic, unbecoming,
I sit in late morning’s

near silence– a button
strikes in the washing

machine, the dog
is gnashing her fur

with her teeth, a jet
passes low–

tail,
contrail,

it’s motion that gives
us all away–

Unmoved, I eat
a mealy peach.