A poem for the season: The Spear Moon

Green is every bough
that is not brown with the
heat: The Sun is
a long-armed man
throwing a spear that roars
for blood, my blood, my sweat.
Heat prickles. Skin sticks.
In the spear moon, the air
is full of burning; the
forests are burning,
the flesh is burning,
the soil is burning,
burning up the black
blood of the earth,
burning up the
spirit in a rage
at injustice, fire
misplaced, it’s all
gone to hell–
the spear that wounds
may heal
if it does not
in the spear moon
in the burning.