Like an alarm I can’t shut off, the summer.
Like air raid sirens stuck on
the world is burning, the world is burning
& I can’t stop it. Can’t stop ash from the reddening

sky falling dry onto grass, onto clover
lit purple at their tips. Mouth level.
My cheek muscles the ground. I can’t hear

anything here. I can’t hear
them but I know, around me,
forests are not quiet as they burn.

All night the slur of cars. Now
one closer, now up-
        voluming, & I lean

against the doorframe, listening.
        I’ve nothing to wake you for.
The earth’s hot core whorls

this sharpness of pines, this gravel loose
beneath us, faltering with each rustle, each step, with what we’re not
saying to each other—Now your flashlight’s beam angles

From her garden in Portland, Oregon, Mary Szybist delivers a reading of Amy Woolard’s poem “If By You You Mean We.”