In the summer when the air is still and there is no breeze
and the night remains warm, there is not much the sweaty poet
can do but watch Laurel and Hardy and write bad poetry.
Summer is for bad poetry and panting grass and dogs lying on the floor.
Exhausted, I almost don’t love you. Spring saw soldiers of hope enter the valley.
Heat colors all things the same. I’ll sneak a peek at Keats’ Odes in the mid-day sun,
weep again, as I did, long ago, and swear he’s the one,
but floating in July’s pond of contentment, I must say,
this is the time of year for my bad poetry and the anniversary of when I loved you badly,
(excuse me, poem) Rosalinda! O slovenly! O song sentimental. Remember that drowsy day?