Summer Solstice



with the melted lead of St John’s festivity,

with the brilliance of summer pelagos,

all the nakedness of life,

and the going beyond and the staying put,

the leaning down and the upsurge,

the lips, the caressed skin,

they all long to be burned.

Like the pine at high noon

overcome by resin

in haste to produce flame

and can’t endure the struggle anymore—

call the children to gather the ash

and spread it.

Everything that has passed,

has passed as it was fit.

And even what hasn’t passed yet

must burn

this high noon when the sun is nailed

in the heart of the one hundred-petalled rose.