March 19, 2012

Melissa Lamberton


I’ve never seen the sky this color
sort of egg yolk around the edges,
but pale as milk above, until
deepening to a shade like that
of flowers.
Here, this will help, exactly
exactly like the color of the smell
of summer grass.
Not daytime green, when gnats
are as breathable as air, though more often
noticed—no, like this grass
beneath me, all shadow
scent and sound.
Lying here, the world is tipping
into night
in that gentle mess above me/below me
I’m waiting for first star.
The velcro earth catches me
with grassy barbs, but in a moment,
in a moment
the curving bowl of dusk
will slip, and tumble, and pour
upon me the omelet of a
dying day, minus the red
chili pepper sun.

from Rattle #25, Summer 2006
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