Dear cures you don't get over,
for the Ericas
Lightsey Darst

Hacked out & eaten up inside.
Impossible --
here tumbleweeds, clang of iron gates, the merciless

swarming box-elder bugs on a wide side
of cottonwood, unseasonable amid torrential
grays, no mistaking November for June, an orchard,

marble orchard they call it, now that is an
organized group of plants,
Mummies: the World Exhibition

"in god's dance" plants
never fruit. Today I think of you &
have the luxury: verge of the reckless wave that only singed my hair

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