Inches from my bungalow, the hedge goes wildly
sprawling past the shape some gardener's put it in.
The new shoots look deformed, not separating stem
from leaf. You cannot call them anything
but urgent. As you leave—as you press
your hand against mine with its gift
of pruning shears and say Go in,
the way you'd cut a tumor out
and point me towards the center of the yard
where I'm to interfere with summer,
not because we don't want it but
because it must not take over everything—
I see you in the inches of the doorway
as the gate closes and the latch
clasps itself together. Night won't come.
Rubber leaves blow darkly in a liquor
breeze. It is the season of the crab