#581 - August

5.viii.21

581

2.216

August

 

is a rolling month

it’s every treetop’s

foretold in the wind

 

the eighth and leaf shone

(though used to be the sixth)

 

sudden drought of oat

pond full

no tank rungs tap

 

we’re citizens of winter now

sing the song

and gather sticks

 

loose mandarin skin pipspit

sweeter from the frost

 

do lockdown dishevel

 

sway with without and wing it

 

a chimney pointing not quite up

with wishing stars

and neck crick

 

things chill to touch

but not so much

 

it is a winter ended month

with lie-ins

with woodpile

will we won’t we make it

 

unswept

yet to burn in the garden

and mulch

see paths to edge

 

August

green tree snake come out

 

see gas world’s steady

close to touch

 

with emperor for deity

founding fascist still named for

bricks to marble

 

still deep in the socks

of this situation

 

goes moonless for a bit