August 1


I hear cries, parts of old and timorous
song above the lissom, mint-tinted boats.

Morning clouds tear at the trees.
Maybe I’m a wind that blows East.
I pick up voices, green leaves, gift ribbon.

In my stomach I carry a copper bell,
two giraffes, and a dragon who says
nothing lasts or stays found, most importantly
the knees, the tongue, rumors of clear weather.

I toss them all up to Kármán air,
nearest the sun, where oxygen grasps for life.
They open, laugh like ferns above the storms.
A man stops, turns to the river. He thinks he hears his name,
remembers what he’d once lost to the wind.

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