Big sun already, fourth of July; waves
of heat creasing vision; scent
of magnolia strong-arms the yard;
exhausted zinnias buckle under.

Huge morning wanders my way,
familiar, supple; I know its swathe
and waste, its storm-cowl
hung on the horizon.

Some memories you wear like a locket.
It's heartless, though,
this imageless gravity of home,
this savage lodestone.