August

A canary-pale bird went
piping by, or rather a buttercup
yellow bird, dipping into
the vacancy of blue,
hastening to the rim
of nothing at the horizon.

I sit listening primly
for an ultimate intimation,
a Wordsworth matter, wondering
why my kneecaps feel like
cat skulls beneath my fingers,
and smell the dusty simplicity
of yarrow, the muddy presence
of a toad, hay odors in my
sunburned hair, and there come
old emanations from another
pollen-saturated year in August,
as implacable as a water buffalo,
which I have never encountered,
but to wit could and will,
any time when summer stands
still and staring like this.