To uncoil and feel
your unredeemable
taut shreds of memory

soften and dissolve,
to exist, for a minute,
past blandishment and purpose,

thirst and worry: it happens,
unasked for, unmerited—
your look lifts, the book

slips from your hand.
Something—a rustle
in weeds, a creaking

high in the pines—
lures you outside
to stand, thoughtless,

amid the fierce delirious
ungodly green that till now
you called summer.