William Waltz
Days I Dream

In honor of the air freshener

stripping the atmosphere

of its obscene dew point

I have a confession

I call the Sand of Cape Cod

Follows Me Home

to make and an excuse

for each limb of the biting

no-see-em and

every bone in the legs

of the bored blue heron

dragging its clothesline

across our skyscape.

When someone wrote

Amy, R. Is Dead

in morning dew

on the windscreen

I call Terminal Moraine,

I so badly wanted

to rearrange the letters

so that Amy is alive

shone bright in the a.m.

but I lacked the v, the verve

the va va voom and the wherewithal.

My therapist suspects

my electrolyte balance,

or lack thereof.

Maybe you know

my therapist, the praying

mantis prowling the garden

phlox, searching for a mate

to devour before the first frost.

All this death

is exhausting.

I’ve missed much

and dropped more,

tripping on rocks,

sun in my eyes.

Today the loveliest breeze

on record scrubbed

the clear veneer

so thoroughly

the weeping willow

swayed east and west

all day until one gust

lifted the tree and

held still its slender

branches for a moment

and from inside the silence

of my living room

I thought

the wind had died

but I was wrong.