august highway 

i have summer by the collar saying,
"please i need more time." the weeds
in the yard are wonderful & lush & lawless.
i keep dreaming of a world without lawns.
remove the "n" & i dream of that too. 
we drive farther than we ever have together.
it is a heat advisory & the tires melt into
the pavement. the earth's crust opens 
& all the dragons are out gnawing on trees.
i pick you a mushroom as a gift.
the kitchen at home is smelly like mildew
& dogs. god i want to be there. i think 
i am suited to a boat house if i didn't
enjoy jumping up & down so much.
some houses have two bathrooms. mine has
a goat & half a door. the heat makes me 
into soup. i hope i am good soup like
thick & meaty not any of this thin broth. 
in a parking on of a gas station we talk 
on the phone with our friend who is 
trying to time travel. we say, "just put
the phone down." she says, "but what if
i can see everything." lately, i think sanity 
is not fun at all. i think when i'm seeing bugs
that that is probably the big truth. 
the little truth is that it is harder than it should be
to walk in the tall grass. to find the heron
& request a fortune. it is getting hotter.
still this is my season. the kind of mirage 
it casts is the only place i want to live.
between radiating highway hills & the deer
who manage to browse & find sweet 
greens to eat in the shade. i join them 
& you scold me. you say, "we are trying
to find an exit." in august every day 
is a back door. i knock. you let me in.
we let night come. moon heavy 
& threatening to burst.