runs beside
the road
with laced sneakers
and laced moonlight
inscriptions clouding his
lavender head as clouds
do the sky
he blends in with
this town
he looks straight
not down

he runs into August
as dust
picked up
by the vacuum
and he’ll eat up September
with a spoon
it’s not June now
July dies after thirty-one days
he can pack up his memories
or pack the kayaks
he can stand awake –
or snooze