Sky a motif of cowslip in clear ice,
 
mayflies make moon-dials of the flagstones.
 
One hawk. Second hawk. They were up there
 
earlier, as sand toads tacked from grass tuft to grass
 
tuft, up the pressed dune’s incline. Divots
 
under the pin oak.
 
Lake level’s low. Unlike
 
This American Life’s female executive producer’s testosterone . . .
 
E. coli trucked in
 
on lettuce, bocce lessons, pine beetle.
 
The shooter games vibrate in Balm Beach
 
Arcade so we squint, the better to look the part
 
and later leak over The Guardian. Re-apply after bathing.
 
Contrail or cloud pattern? We’re late arrivals, like winter.
 
One week, cedar fence to the waterline. Next,
 
a passion play of flip flops. Husqvarna. An arm splint.