with the match-strikes of their cries.
Down here we tell ourselves summer is beautiful,
summer is alive, as if to pave the way

for the inevitable sojourn to the deep, deep south
when we retire. Like the man who swallows
steaming spoonfuls of soup all of his life,

we believe that if we acclimate our blood now,
it will be thin enough to take the heat of Revelations.
All the while we teach our children

how to find shapes in the clouds
as the residue of well-groomed lawns
raises welts on their fair backs.