The springing bugs are neon green
in the smoky haze of early summer.
I cradle a renaissance chronicle
of renaissance imagination, of island justice,
of quill and candle hopefulness.
Eddies of song curl about the glass table,
caressing the clothes drying on the chewed wood, my velvet
and skin, fading to red,
in customary unaccustomed fashion.
My sister twitches, itching in the beech tree.
Beneath cracked slate and sighing canine coat
the earth is heaving, spewing up frost and worms and neon grass
and a minty-dust breeze and notes onto paper.
My shoulders pink when the sun shines,
but when it doesn’t,
I shiver.