Anthony Robinson
Summer Song

for Jenny Rogers

The trouble with summer is the want:
in the trees, careening waxwings, on the ground
discarded burger wrappers, empty jugs of red.

To finish the long recovery-
the putting back what well-mannered January
took away: love or its doppelganger

standing on the steaming asphalt, who,
possessing a remedy for the heat,
this frail burning, drops its towel

on the wet grass, swims up through dandelions and grey-
backed lizards, throws itself on you,
one of the radiant few who stand here,

wiping your brow, you who with your body
entirely embrace this thing, this bee-sting,
this fine neck-pricking, the canvas smeared,

this sly imposter who leaves you breathless
and breathing and alone as August pulls her curtains
and the moon finally fails to brighten

the building on the corner of an empty street.