Buried in Summer

One can hope for scarlet beef
in a kidney shaped tub full of
lonesome pups who all shiver while
reeling from the copper sky as though
it were a receptacle for bashing the eyes
with sheer bliss and beauty.
Let me not return to the city all
kinked and ruinous,
bent on the administration
of failures. Seizing from a lamp,
I read old letters by arm's length;
glasses nestled on my nose just
like you'd imagine someone would
do in a play about such matters.
It means so much to be buried here
with the stillness of summer
now tilted to rot.