He put it up in June

He put it up in June,

tested the tension with both hands,

went back inside.

I've watched it from the kitchen window

every morning since.

The fabric has gone stiff with pollen.

The rope on the far tree

is beginning to loosen at the knot.

It bows lower than it did in June.

The trees haven't moved.

Just the hammock,

taking on a little more of something

each week.

He's up there. I hear him moving.

The ceiling does that.

I don't know what he's doing instead.

Probably the thing I'm always doing instead—

that arithmetic of later, later,

the whole summer accumulating

in the fabric of the thing

you didn't get into.