The jasmine blossoms suffered from the hot day yesterday, and had today been as hot I'm sure most of them would have turned brown. But there is still enough white on the hedge to let it glow brightly as dusk settles on the world. The birds settle, too, and so does the quiet, disturbed only by the occasional rustling of leaves and the singing of distant frogs and nearby crickets whose sounds blend into a soothing murmur. Ah, I can barely keep my eyes open.
by Howard Nemerov
Are generally over or around
Erogenous zones, they seem to dive
In the direction of those
Dark places, and indeed
It is their nature to be dark
Themselves, keeping a kind
Of thieves' kitchen for the things
Sequestered from the world
For long or little while,
The keys, the handkerchiefs,
The sad and vagrant little coins
That are really only passing through.
For all they locate close to lust,
No pocket ever sees another;
There is in fact a certain sadness
To pockets, going in their lonesome ways
And snuffling up their sifting storms
Of dust, tobacco bits and lint.
A pocket with a hole in it
Drops out; from shame, is that, or pride?
What is a pocket but a hole?