August Letter to My Soldier in These Difficult Times

 August Letter to My Soldier in These Difficult Times

All morning haze converges
in the alley and the insects

swoon like Victorian
women, cinched and blood-

headed—they litter
the burner wells of the ancient stove—

it sits there behind our house
like a child.

Always the sun on me but you know
worse drums. Last night Mrs.

King—of black lace, blue knick—
knack—I heard the flutter of her

argument at the window,
I heard her turn a hose on

the roses in the moon
light and the drag

she took from
her cigar-

ette. Love,
when ‘til you get here? I’m painting my mouth

the color of Jonathans. I’m counting locusts
for luck. Every third Monday

I wake to the truck in the alley come
to crush the furniture.

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