August

Wind blows tart 
sharply
pressed between strawberry longing at a quarter to cloudy
while
heat falls in tapestry-branched curtains heavy 

     with forgetfulness
the width & span of a thousand years
Will the peaches come on Sundays
     as they have before you were born?
What day is it?
                       Wednesday.
Medallions of lions tattooed along my thigh
itch from the sting of an orange wasp
forgetting the vastness of cone-flowers & yard chickens

The wind promises autumn the way stars promise dawn

all bets on the moon 

Time sharpens the lines 

blurs the marrow 

poured into the mystic of morning . . .