Rocks like Jeffers described: hard headed, stiff witted, but not

chatterers or fools. Not easy to walk on them, but not dull either.

East, the mainland is lost in murk and hydrocarbon haze.

West, the last sun tints a few tentative clouds.

Yesterday I read Robert Hass’s account of the difference

between “Oh” and “O,” which was offered with utter confidence

and matched my own views not at all. The heat is supposed

to break tomorrow. A family of otters prowls just offshore,

Bedraggled families and clusters of beefy guys circle their canoes around the lakes, but the sites have all been taken by other bedraggled families and church groups who are trying in vain to dry their socks and cook their lentils and freeze-dried lasagna.

Even the white-throated sparrow seems resigned to despair and one drop after another falling right on his head.

None of this is new. It’s just usually not my problem.

My sorrow is not a city, and not burning. It is Railroad Street

in my town, so small it has only six houses, all facing

the tracks, three of them neat and clean, two in need

of paint and shingles, one so poor that nobody remembers

how to open the door, how long ago the gas was turned off,