August

I can only wonder
when I drive down 
dirt roads in august
if I have blinked
or if it is just 
telephone pole shadows
flitting over the hood
like camera shutters

and it feels like just about 
everything is overcooked in 
august
july ladybugs don't move when poked
and litter my windowsils
dry and cracking with the paint
brittle as corn kernel husks

august gives me blunt sqaures
of droop-eyed sunlight 
falling crooked on the hardwood floor
and I lie on my stomach, 
feet casually drifting somwhere above, 
and try forever to find the edge
of those sharp-shouldered shadows
where I will be able to peel them
up and off the floor
before the cruel august sun
bleaches the wood