Theory of Summer

 

Upon the tip, the cherry; on the branch;

the bird; under the tree, the dog. Still life

persists: the branches of the taller tree

wave in the superheated breeze, a frieze

only so tall, motion above stasis.

We notice me, still standing at the window,

observer of the unobserved, observed

by you in your detachment. Words, you say,

not things, as though I could not be a thing

because we know a word for me. The bird,

who is a flicker, as it happens, hops

closer, the cherry dips, the dog explodes—

I say she is a shepherd—and the still

structure collapses, except that you are reading

words, not noise. Your head, your head's a noun,

and I have made me up to tell to you,

whom I made up to hear. And the bird, too.

I think the dog is real. I'll look her up.