END OF JULY

Of longing, Termia, the sharp specifics know
no end, and down its progress the sharp days
lose no edge, the hours
crumbling streambeds to strand
the source deeper in summer. Orchard ladders
lean into the moist sheen of dark globes.

Near Baden under swallows, one
belltower cut through vineyards, banners out,
when the wish fixed me, rash
as blind archery, to lift
one clean impulse streaking out of the ruck
even if it landed wide of your touch
while quarter-hour strokes
through worn maroon face rings rounded
on their gold mark.

  Slow tones, swelling
...