I miss you, late summer storms, your refreshing albeit anticipated violence,
           your understated arrivals—

like the creeping up of ennui, the muffled build-up of orgasms. Like facing
           long black dresses in the attic,

the brutality of their scents: coal and pepper. I miss you too, wire hangers,
           and the butcher’s twine

wound tight around flesh, how you hold together and up high what no longer is. I            miss you, keyholes

of all the houses I’ve ever rented, your promises of solitude. And you, silent slits of
           mailboxes; miss the static rustle of wheat,

the waving of long ochre blades, how they slant in unison and when they part,            what’s born of the dark.