35

Low sun crashes down into
The glasses on the sidetable
At the dark end of the lawn
There where an oasis of light
Breaks through the treeline
It lights upon the lipmarks at
The furnaced rims and the wet
Residue of sugar and pulp and
In the other dust and brackish
Tapwater stale in the rising air
Cotton seeds are caught on a rim
And in the wooden mechanism
Of the sunchair adjascent catch
The light and the faded floral
Covered foam cushions are no
More than wafers of sponge that
Prickle in the rising humidity
Smelling of a decade's smoke of
Barbeques and winter woodfires

The beds are dry and the wilted
Flowers are sated in light and
The yellow grass is flaming