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When it’s hot enough to peel off your own skin

May 27, 2014

And you’ve rolled the windows down, the car

coughing over every pothole, and the world

is green to your left and to your right.

The first weekend of summer,

and everything unfastens.

When the orchards are mulched

it’s hard to believe how six months have passed

since you made applesauce with your shoes,

nosing around for the last of the death-sweetened fruits.

The branches espaliered as if they’re dancing,

as the baby grapes, within arm’s reach, foreshadow or reminisce

exactly where you were last year, this time.

This is the greatest blessing staying in one place offers —

Grace of custom, seeing the small finches go out

and come back to the eaves of your life until it becomes

a nest, until you learn to not be good

at everything right away, like a rhythm,

allowing it to be messy, gloriously, over again.

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