In the first days of summer

    the three elms， those slightly

    opened fans， unfold

    their shadows across the river.

    Two dogs arrive exhausted¹，

    tongues dripping， and settle

    down near the frogbait jars.

    Aiming their poles

    toward the center of water，

    the Sunday fishermen watch

    the light pirouette off

    the opposite shore.

    Their wives peel onions，

    open wine， do their nails.

    Most of the men think

    as little about gravity

    as they do about war and

    the weightlessness of time.

    How could they know that

    it is only the single， collective

    thought of their abandoned childhoods

    that keeps the world afloat？