Summer is a Dream

Gary Sokolow

There were explosions over sky, I
   had heard of the bomb makers
behind stone walls, as I rise from this bed
   as others try but can’t and decide
I can be anyone, anywhere, doing anything.

I write of the most intimate things: a wicker
   basket moved under a desk, the steam
radiator too hot throughout winter
. Here I play
   at nothing, am content to watch a summer
storm dump three inches of rain, drown the azaleas,
   threaten to wash away some town deep
in the heart of Jersey.

Here it all seems so easy: the woman on the screen
   in a sparkling dress, the official waving behind
a phalanx of security. Easy. Like the ache of love for
   the dark haired woman, her beauty, a mirage,
dissolving into the scorching heat of a July noon.