“And I long for the blast of dynamite”–Roethke

an excruciating crushing
might also be a waking.
summer’s end . . .

sat in a park at sunset with
my self, some fireflies and mosquitoes—also
on the bank of a stream that had nearly expired from
a few
puddles only
in the dim light
did languish in that stony bed,
blood drying on a wound.
Was it a wholesome healing?
Was it the false scab that hides infection?

. . . a few bats flipped their shapes above the treetops
on the stream bed’s farther side
my heart was sinking with the day
into distraction
(“I’m too much with this wormtongue ‘I,’”–a whisper)
and I fought to see those bats not flies