Plague

A little boy's terrier named Simon is missing.
Outside, the heat descends, that seasonal death,
and Hispanic men with diabetes ride through it on wheelchairs.
I think I understand most things, nutrition,
capital punishment, the genetics of my melanin,
but the world is larger than a mason jar.
This isn't a time for catching ant lions.
My hands can hold just an apple.

House-sitting for three days, I haven't slept too well.
It's the high ceilings, hollow floors--the paper hangings
of bees and crying women keeping me awake. I can't remember
how to fractionalize three half-gallons of milk.
Like math, my mind considers idle things.
I can't remember the last time I had cream cheese.

At work, I heard there is a resurgence in Geography
among satellites and grad students in Austin,
where it rarely snows. I don't know about hibernation.
Moths don't freeze in the winter; unnatural trees
in Texas are evergreen. I learn all of this while a man
is drinking coffee and laughing--he has a faded
circle of bullets tattooed around his arm.
He works at a tapas bar.
They cook with peppers hot enough to blind an infant.

So even fruit can be a brutal thing, I understand:
little thorns, hardy seeds. Because it's all connected,
I wonder if the Bible is always literal.
I keep thinking about the truth of stories. Insane men
have cut off their hands. Algae is the color of blood;
locusts are a hot breath of God.
Swarming, they boast that darkness of Simon
wandering the streets, but even plagues have community.
I think that's something good.