Young gray cat puddled under the boxwood,
Only the eyes alert. Appressed to dirt. That hiss
      The hiss of the grasses hissing What should
What should. Blank road shimmers. On days like this,
                                My mind, you hardly
                                   Seem to be.
                                On days like these.

      No, no. See that sidelong silver drum? The hiss’s a sigh
Of that propane tank. Two o’clock, you can smell it.
      Don’t breathe that sigh. The creek’s gone dry.
Summer as wide as this wildered sky, days like this.
                                My mind, you hardly
                                   Seem to be.
                                Straw-frail, no breeze—