The backyard is moving so fast
through summer I can see the breeze
registered by the seismic tips
of the honeysuckle. I am having a beer
as we dip over the horizon. To the left
I can hear my neighbor watering
her perennials, off in the country
of cancer, just beyond the hedge.

Her snapdragons glisten by cancer-light,
the finches at her feeder
are cancer-lovely, and even the tilting
garage, paint peeling in the dusk, glows
with the cancerous beauty of old garages.

Nice evening, she calls to me
in cancer, a language I learned
from my mother, who spoke it
beautifully. The beer is very cold,
and a sycamore at the yard’s edge
is coming apart in the twilight.

The sprinkler bends to x-ray
the primrose, straightens up,
then goes down for another look. Yes,
I say, in my perfectly inflected cancer.
And tomorrow’s supposed to be
even nicer.