Ditch city noise. Drive
150 miles to deadhead
flowers in twilight, each
tiny punk of ex-petunia
that you pinch off
a new bloom, the satisfaction
of tracing a lover’s nipple.
Geraniums break away
with a firm touch, explode
like antique paper stars.
Dragonflies patrol the low skies
and those bats that remain
after the white-nose virus
test the open air.
Slip into a state like half-waking,
walk barefoot green hose
fine spray summer heat
sadness-tinged orange
light of 8 p.m.
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