July, Blue

The night with its own life unspooling.
Without you, the greed of the fruit flies,
the portent of stars. Guitar from a window:
chords struck, suspended in turgid air.

Without you, the greed of the fruit flies
multiplies, fills the cantaloupe with a soft rot,
chords struck, suspended in deepening air
like the harvest moon blurred in the rain, here too soon.

Multiplied, the soft rot of melancholy
makes a woman empty too many glasses of wine.
Weave impossible paths from her bed to the bottle
though it’s summer, for God’s sake, the blossoming time.

She drains too many glasses of wine.
Without you, she’s lost head for her need of a heart
in the blossoming time, for God’s sake, it’s now summer!
And the grasses grow high, though there’s life nearer earth.

Without you, she’s lost heart,
the night lousy with memory and untuned guitars
and the grasses so high, hide the life nearer earth.
She hears the low whistle of trains moving on.

The night chord is struck: memory’s untuned guitar
and sound folds into her like a small paper crane.
Again, the low warning of trains heading east
and she wonders if one can start over again

Notes fold into her like a small paper crane,
the edges will not let her sleep, but half-dreams in the creases.
She thinks, maybe, she can start over again
And finally, she sleeps. The night, with its own life, unspools.

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