“July is murderous.” -Hayden Carruth
We’ve seen these seasons before.
Fortunes fall for most of the all
While the rest erect essence of walls,
and expect sex in dead, white halls.
We’ve seen these seasons once
or twice, we pulled these stunts
with skinned knees on long hunts,
swollen by swarms of bees.
We’ve seen this season,
the reason having been
our limbs grew grim
and slim and pale green.
I mean it really seems we’ve
seen these seasons in dreams
or stories streamed in beams
through our corn-yellow curtains.
We’ve seen this season, certainly,
its romances far from saintly,
pale in the sun’s bleach with
pails full of pre-owned beach.
How far the seasons’ temperaments
reach, and no mention of any
temporary relief outside the
garden of chlorofluorocarbon!
We’d lay this season down like a rifle
if we could find a slice of cool ground.
Comes the heat, come the dead in the street,
and no shaking the murder from these hot heads,
it’s over, it’s already gone down, as ever.