print previewback LISA RUSS SPAAR
Two Weeks
Slatted lap of an Adirondack chair
blushes with leaves. I re-coil
the garden hose, nasal slip
as summer empties out, gloves my hand.
How still so warm?
Sun-salted tale, the lawn
beds down, oblivious to sorrow,
anger, the joy I confess to one who—
wherever I am. And whatever
hides in the bamboo
I’ve learned is not evergreen
will clatter through, or not,
beneath a gyre of black shawls.
Chemical fire of chrysanthemums;
the hospital of any hour.
Odor love opens with its fist. 
Accidental
Two Weeks
The Wind Wears a
Red Leaf