Hush Point 

by LAUREN CAMP

The dogs are slack beside us, breathing 
hot rungs, building time. 
Two friends 
palm and lob 
cotton bags filled with corn. 
Each grainy weight thunks 
near the hole: a burden
they try to tuck in. No one wants 
to move much. Delaying 
future fruits and flesh, 
three flats of seedlings stall 
at the back of the yard. 
The sky is unwilling 
to take any clouds. 
A conversation leaves 
our mouths, tiny and gradual. 
We lean on wood slats. Praise 
the red maple’s wide leaves 
for wringing us shade. 
Summer reels over us, 
moist. We drink or eat 
what ice remains. The aim 
is to slouch 
beneath red-winged blackbirds, 
to hear streets pause 
and sweet peas droop 
in degrees. To gap 
to sundown, unwound.