what number was your summer. your flavored fall. palms up or down the either way.
blurred, or stark. sleepy like this.

we run our instruments, but hammers have cache. winter used to linger like a hand
resting on a table. we used to hear ourselves. staying in the bed five minutes longer in
the morning. a buried position.

spring has dirt on her knees. is waiting for the gone elective. for the chance to see it
clearly again this time around.

what wonder was your summer. did it begin by putting it off. or what we hear in only
our left ear.

the trees gather their own rain again in alamo square. one day they’ll flood the city. if
touched , would they feel any different ten years from now.

would you say lines run through everything in winter. bits and pieces of ourselves falling
off into the air. they tell us, I’m going to leave you soon.

drop the needle down and we’ll see if we can avoid the impetus. the cracked shell of a
turtle. a look at every face we see in a day. how long is that slippage.

some land is designated for the dead. some music shouldn’t be leaked directly into our
ears. a popped window screen latch. a teenage neighborhood desertion of the hour. an
initial quiet that came to break. shoes off, we walked those middle lines of places erased
as they went. we made them ours.