august first, who remember rabbit rabbit

august

it comes 

and sits, stale and green,

like gingerale from june left

on the back railing of the boat's deck.

friday's harvest brought the finale of early summer cabbage and chard, well washed beets

and carrots, head lettuce separated and washed, lemon basil and thai magic, parsley (which

i can't help but find boring) and others, washed, sorted, in green and gray crates. lael and

sebastian are away in colorado for a wedding and the weight of the acres falls on the shoulders

of jacob and myself. we both worry we will be transformed into killing machines, mechanized

and tubed, due to our inexperience and independence. i fret over the green house, open and 

close it, open and close, peek in, open, glance, close. water, once? wait, two passes? 

jacob uses the tractors and rubs his head nervously with suspicion. wait, too close? too wet?

is it everything? nothing? of course, it's both, and if the two of us aren't careful, we'll pray to

the physical world alone and forget to bow to shadows as well, and the space between the 

objects and the shadows. those realms we make fists for, we water for, we weed.

the routine of the summer and the necessity for carefulness leads to urges of recklessness.

i want to take naps and work on the odd tan lines around my body. i want to take the hyacinth

car and drive to find jackie. i want to make mixed drinks for twenty people and read out loud

prose poetry, set off fireworks and then fall asleep underneath them, waking to confuse

fireflies with sparklers: stale, green, like gingerale, like august, in the palms of my two hands.