riverside during the drought,
seed speck just sits
rejecting, the cracked ground
and the occasional lift
levitating, the wind taking
them to form clouds, shade
to sink in
behind their passage. as if and if only

we were slipping into a pool holding dear cinder
with pills that taste of paper mills’
scent.

the latter all too present, we each cringe
and an opiated transvestite tired
of trying to be sixty
sits at the furthest point still
under shade, distance enough she decided.

like locust chasing the end of a plain for anything
but become pirgrite,
we agree itll only be the night
knowing it will only be the night
and never another, without the least contrition.