Brown butcher’s paper accordioned in crooked arms,
a cherished cornucopia.
It is baby’s breath and brilliant crocuses; it is a wailing infant.
It is a shining brass euphonium
blazoning:
“Look at what I am!”
Somewhere above the wrists
is Schrödinger, wondering about
consciousness and multiplicity.

The dog days ended yesterday, but the pavement still
waves with the radiation of summer.
What comes next?
A feline contrapositive
to the lazy yipping of early August,
an exotic stretch,
the shadows of a box.
The crinkle of paper, motes dancing,
everything synchronized.