This heat,
more noise
than splash, 
through each
splayed feather
of the swan
rinsed in the lake.

Is there
a necessary
difference between
and humidity?

The predictable
human body
easily missed, as a motionless
great blue heron, 
a stick of a bird. 

In the middle of the road
a baby snapping turtle
forgot where it was,
waited for an interruption
asleep in a box made for a ring. 

The crabapple flowers
prefer not
to suffocate their bees
unlike Paris
when he snatched
the most beautiful woman. 
She need
not be asked.

What scent
veiled in
this loose hair, 
swept around the neck. 
Ought to be cut
even though
it will grow back. 
It is a trick,
if there is
to pull.
The upright
neck of the swan
long like an arm,
or a forgotten kiss
beneath a film
of clouds
and what of
these teeth, this tongue,
this pure heat
as the sun crawls along my window.

Previously published in Porkbelly PressMyth+Magic