That’s us. Let in the August storm. Let
blow open the windows. Let pulse wind
bring about a typhoon of wicked actions.
Call the tempest by its secret name.
Name that envelopes the mountains
where time goes to sleep. We celebrate
another birthday in the dark. You don’t
want to be there. You are there. You
remember a poem born from flame.
I recite it backwards and close my
eyes. Caught in a breeze heavy
with smoke.
forget the surf still damping
our shoes. forget the soft curve
of drowning eyes. drink the
seaside road, drink the dusk and
follow chains in the sky. or
instinctive memory of solar flare,
of careless sight. for sun. for
afternoon fog as humid breath
puddles the road, walking with
us in a worry and tied in loose
knots. under drowning moons.
the final pages turned, umber
words, out-of-fashion howls.
forget the concept of names,
the naming of objects requiring
names, the objects themselves.
