The longing month has ripened to a rot,
Hangs lustily down to the bark-littered ground
Where ants find ways to bridge the empty space
And add to browning pulp a groaning weight.
Wind! Alas, it finally takes off
Accumulation mastered in the sun.
The lump drops and squashes civilization
As birds, without a song, soar their city on.
Embossed against a street of leaves, a boy,
While in a sound the town extends its limbs,
The father looks to where the wind alit
And finds a swollen memory instead.
In dreams the past is a well-done steak,
A thing on a plate to satiate desire
While muscles and bones lay in repose
And the future is a well-licked plate.