joanne burns

grip

                                              time rolls down the tolerant
                                              hill from the secular bus stop

                                              you can wax your feet with a
                                              candle stub and join up for the ride –
             
                                              lie on the road as it turns
                                              the corner just for the heck of it

                                              the whiff of warm tar makes a day
                                              less boring in a long hot summer when
                                  
                                              temperance jigs on the porch like a
                                              rampant djinn: anxiety seeping through
                   
                                              that unwrapped gift of the iliad, you suck
                                              on the toffee or fate sucks on you

                                              bury the long necks under the hibiscus
                                              and hear a modest future bloom;

                                              the beat of the tennis ball against
                                              the high garage wall can improve

                                              a backhand and volley the charm
                                              of elastic hooked to the ball like a

                                              hero no smashing of window glass
                                              at the kitchen sink; you’ll sit

                                              like a sunset, tuck into a soft
                                              chop and two tone salad minus

                                              the orange ring the accusation of ocean
                                              smothered in the folds of a frayed epaulette