Outside, the crepe myrtles are black

with mold. The eyes of the floating log

stare apathetically: I don’t care enough

to hurt you, they say and close. Above,

the clouds island together volcanic.

I talk to myself or god: am I still a child?

I storm and the clouds threaten to wash

away the summer feel of heat. Inside,

I’m asked to clean up the bodies

of the roaches I smeared on the counter.

I don’t. A man on the radio says the plants

have more leaves than their roots can hold.

They are bending over, dying. I look outside

again. The cypress trees are tall with kudzu capes.

They are not superheroes, but ghosts.