My throat is heavy with August’s sorrows
I sit by the shore and wait for the weakest waves
to drown my little feet — I stagger over them like a clumsy giant.
But it’s seaborne sadness wraps, a constant, unrelenting embrace
like a mother’s grief,
a gentle creature’s death,
a rabid dog feasting on a poor, meatless bone.
I am alive — so cruelly alive for it all
as it falls
down my throat, down my chest like a child’s pained whisper.
My body is heavy with August’s weight as I retire to my filthy bed
and hold myself.
Cold are the nights in their quiet,
lackadaisical, taunting hours.
Come now, September. Come, kindly, if you please;
sweep me away into a million, invisible dust particles
suspended
under clueless, flickering lights.
