I remember June, maybe July. We used to catch slugs in beer, half burying a cup
In the dirt among the green and many golden suns. And they’d come like pilgrims,
Something about the smell seemed to draw them – I must, I cannot be without.
Elaine and I would count their silk, their swollen bodies, bubbling in warm Fosters.
And still they came, singing rhododendron in little bits of silver, threads of music
through the wet grass. And in the sun, shining through the living room window.
What is desire? If it isn’t time, working in glass. Here is a hand, spelling its name,
Here is a spell, writing itself; Hydrangea macrophylla, Anemone clematis, beloved
Pathway, Geranium himalayense, Cosmos bipinnatus, I alone know this road
To sanctuary, can name you as Dendranthema grandiflora, as chrysanthemum,
As the flowering of a single, undeniable sun. Here is amber light, an empty glass,
Here is an open doorway – I must, I must, I cannot be without.
There are fig trees and factories 