Heat

Only June and we're haying the horses,
Last year's bales almost depleted.  The first
Cutting weeks off, if ever.  The sky
A flatiron, a whitish sheet
Threadbare with longing.  Every morning
We check the forecast.  Another scorcher,
No rain in sight.  Red bullseye
On the weather map.  The broken records,
Wells running dry.  Whirlpools of flies
Envelope the woodlot the horses shun
To stamp in baleful sun.  Small stingers
Abrade their long-lashed eyes.  Sweatbees
Settle on our naked shoulders.  The chorus of
Heat raises its ecclesiastical voice.

Lake Effect

Skin

Its capacity for holding in
the vulnerable
and harmonious organs.

Egyptian priests preserved it
oiled and wrapped like cocoons.
After George Parrott, the train robber,
was hanged, Doc Osborne had him
skinned and tanned
into a pair of fine leather shoes.
The Nazis made lampshades
from the skins of Jews.

In “The Trees” Richter describes
Indians skinning a captured
wolf, letting it run red
and hopeless into the woods
while they jeered drunk
on white man's whiskey.

As we age, our skin thins,
its map splotches with destroyed cities.
The continent of the self erodes.
Theologians insist our bodies
will arise on the Last Day
in wondrous skins of belief..

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