It is that part of the month of July

when the earth gives up her moisture,

a time when some plants die

and others spring out.

 

These new weeds are

a tough chewy lot.

But this is really their time.

They gather in the sun

around the old boarded theatre

 

 

wearing leather in black widow heat.

At least the girls have skirts.

They swirl like dust devils around

an uncertain motorcycle.

 

There must be hidden somewhere

down the long tunnel of unseen

consequence

 

A purpose for this cracked-earth season

A reason for dog fennel;

 

The old man in the mirror.