White-hot the black-wrought
iron bench off High Street
where I read a Bill Luse novel
to the beat of the sun’s beatlessness.
She splits the sky and renders judgment
strong and hot, visible to all
inescapable astride the 'sphere
plain as the nose on your face.
At home the tomato plants slump
and I look at them sideways and debate
between the tough love of asking their roots to go deeper
and the pity of watering them now.