The veil between the worlds is growing thin.
The grass is growing tall outside the door.
Who was that baby in the dream again?

Sunny May morning; going through the mail.
Among solicitations, one stands out
from summer neighbors: a Conquer-a-thon—

Forked lightning sears and stabs and stabs again.
The thunderstorm threatening all afternoon,
lowering and dark, has now arrived.

Except it didn't. It went underground
as some diseases have been known to do,
returning with a vengeance in our time.

And all the while we were ourselves ideas,
not new ones, either, of if not a mind

Wordless graffiti of unease
when people die where do they go?

I  Midpoint of summer. Horizontal light
   picks out the fly in the dusty web; mousedroppings
   fresh on my desk each morning; poems; letters;