Under elm spread
a fistfight nearly
happens, but late-age
trolls are content
to roll trash through
the graves of their teeth.

Maybe it was the heat
that made you sign
my name to this spit;
maybe it was the heat
that pushed you into
this quiet bitterness.

Going home in
caustic steps, the
dead clouds fall
like ripe oranges
onto the street.

I can't stop sweating.
Instead of nursing
with black milk
we prepare a sky
with green stars that
came by mail,
untroubled by the
useless, wicked elms.