The Solitudes of August - IV

The world of cicada song - is not the real one,
Of lawn and airplane motors. The chipmunk's fur
Cannot compare with how the girl pulls all the scent out
From her curls.
The regal glow of summer
Resolves to barbecues and swimming pools,
A woman's, not a blue jay's, sharp complaints.

There is no room in stillness
For betrayal apologetics,
For the deals one makes with evil,
For the keening cry of lack
Across the backyards, where life's victims
Proclaim they're never wrong with icy glass.

The whippoorwills may mock this,
But they have different business -
They reserve their conversations for the moon
And centrifugal breezes - not things
That need convincing they exist.