1.
I tally July. It withers at my feet:
a moon-struck earwig staggering across
the walk, a patch of desiccated moss,
geraniums that won't survive the heat.
2.
I'm slipping pelargoniums. The street
is empty, save for you. I'll need a gloss
of auxin for the cuts — to stem the loss
of fluids. You say we've met. When did we meet?
3.
Tonight's a strawberry moon, perfectly fair.
There's never any rain. You ask about
the willow branches: a treatment for the slips.
I soak my starts in willow water. There —
beyond the willow — see? The moon's come out,
round as a berry. You've come for cutting strips...
