The Eleventh of August

poems from the north, day 8

Stone lion — photo, my own

The stone lion resumes its watch.
Overlording thoughts
on air quality and what makes
a house, home.

I become a sphinx, too,
squinting at lanky grass
that sways in tune
with the arthropods

who gulp and swallow air
unapologetically,
their Buddha bellies filled
with the sounds of being.

Others try to paint me
into fights unbelonging to me.
Vying for the same space
at the front of the line.

It’s not for me to decide
how it ends.
All I can do is reflect
that which is already known.

Last night, beneath
a half-moon grinning dopily
over our shaded silhouettes,
he asked where I was.

Twice, I repeated, only here.
Where else might I be,
I wondered, but remembered
as the last breeze of night
prickled my arms.