Thoughts, like the shadows of clouds
That pass below you
Pass above me:
White heat blaring like telephone wire buzzing,
Control box popping
Everything I own
Has been bleached by the sun.
My legs keep up with the crickets
Crescendo desiccating the atmosphere
Incessant buzzing, that telephone wire.
Molecules reverberating around my eye sockets
Hollow ear bones click and chatter.
There is a language here
Unbeknownst to any welded frame
Human or just wavelength
The last breath of Something we all hope for
Transpires on the air--
Air like bathwater.
We assume the return of everything.
CO2 in our lungs, sleep, the seasons
But one day these things will not arrive.
One day, Spring will not show up.

I can't help but feel

I am coming into something.