Solstice by Dave Iasevoli

He loves to look at her, hound
and mutt paradigm. She shows
that a kind of wisdom is right
here for the taking, no, asking,

no: given. His gaze chances
upon the green hummingbird
at his feeder, a little sugar water,
a bit of bourbon to enter into night

and the hills aglow across the lake
he knows as well in ways but still
gets lost within it—this light demands
return to another woman. That’s it,

so sad and lovely, when they drove
into the desert night of winter
in New Mexico, anew, such kids
at being more than friends,

when she taught him alpenglow.
First day of full summer now
and you learn the sun’s illusion
and so, old man, wise at last

you get the works: the emerald bird
and maddened, maddening crow,
the fallen fat peonies, the violet
and gold wildflowers refusing names,

the oven heat today and thick cold
six months hence—they all belong
inside his heart, minding, paying heed,
and now you’re in it, too, for good.