the old women’s
summer seeps
onto the city
spilled honey
waiting
to be wiped away
the dishrag night
cold and clammy
schemes from
out behind the hills
the townsfolk scurry
to get their fill
little ants marching on
in circles down
the sun-sodden streets
or otherwise — encased
like bees in amber
they sit, soak, simmer
subdued and dreamy-eyed
beneath a feeble sun
If not the gnat then the horsefly keeps the company at my side in the tall hours of the afternoon: one born of future’s fancy; one sprung...
i’m topsy-turvy or all sprawled out like somebody’s been hit upside the head by some proverbial brick hewn from leftover gloom or pressed...
Trip down memory lane where the steady step staggers nimble grace quakes atrophied and sluggish or simply swept off in the wake of time...
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