Lemons in August
Mineral green Lisbons poised in the desert. I’m watching bees drunk with sun. A blistered leaf. Outside Phoenix, west of the municipal airport, cicadas drone in the mesquite’s shade. All morning the story on Reuters is bombing. I’m counting spent blooms on the vine. What good are the rosemary? Orange jubilee scaling uniform walls? The lemons are courting monsoons. Acidic. Too soon to harvest. Too late to save. I’ve nothing to add to the prophets. Lizards pulse under jasmine. A lone contrail cuts the sky.