To not unhinge with the unhinging day
which pulls up in a yellow limousine
she half recalls or wants to,
and the roofs are part of it
slowly, or people’s failings. She hears
the hammers but what are they building?
The days are long and incline together;
she heads out in a blue dress already
tired of such deposition—it’s best
to leave and leave an absurd note behind,
something about the proportions
of heaven, feelings divining August,
its scaffolding a surplus of porches
and conversation where the vines break open.
Thank you for the glass, she notes.
Thank you for the water.