August

The lazy sixth month
to the burning eighth.

I'm a wreck
a shipwreck
a home wreck
a car wreck in the front yard
with sleepy spectators
in scant clothing
no socks
drawn in by the smell of metal
and the light
like moths.

Life ending
and summer ending
when I looked at his lips.

Why wasn't I crying?
His everywhere hands
putting my body on fire,
my body's on fire!
He's safe and
he's home.

The house is catching fire, too.