Smoke harnessing sky, old June
sits well on your shoulder-
dead tree spikes against
your thunder-full cloud;
and I do not move, still dressed
for sun bath and want
the rain to come, want to feel
beneath an action of the world,
to know,
water on shoulders,
that I am not a thing apart,
not memories, not dreams
but animal hair, and gut and bone.
Come rain and show me
the precious primacy.
I’ll sit here in the clogged heat
and wait.
