the things we never could say
about
August

Frozen hands in the sink,
a hurricane, however mild
that stews inside a covered cage,
a stolid and unshaken twig.

it calmly glances back
at a breathless frightened hare,
so glorious inside the eye
so hideous what it leaves there.

golden flowers hide the teeth,
a rainstorm in the heat
so sweet the breath of cool relief
left boiling where you stand.

it isn’t, it will never be,
not shaken by the hardest winds
could leave you but in blankest stare
with gashed nail marks in your skin.

it isn’t, it will never be,
not starved out by the longest drought,
not washed in by the fiercest flood,
"it isn’t you, it’s me."

28
21
11
6
6
10
85
25
2