August.

Dead years and rot have lined walls, the stricken decay is all over and the cars have fled, the night is endlessly swimming - that was two years before August.

landlocked between buildings, walking in the alleys on summer evenings, the shadows cover the field, the lights trickle out gently, the people go on turning and the washing machine whirrs backwards and forwards

Children with cycles, children with ice creams, lil girls and sweet boys sitting in the park,
a fragrance fills the thick air - something naked and fresh, a little ruptured and slightly bruised,

The sky, the sky,
the long lone dead end - bury memories bury the absent the unsent

The sky the sky,
looks anxious and tired today, looks burdened and scarred its face is blank, its limbs are are falling in heaps on the grass and its tongue
crawls on back
taste saliva, taste a fatigue, a beauty and a nothingness rolling along with the dust

takes, gives, gives, takes,
what's returned is what is left what's birthing is the room without a door or
maybe a doorknob floating between many doors

the flower and the juice jug are both going stale, the television sucks chocolate wrappers
words are raining from parts of the floor upwards.They were all the same

Home is as alive and dead as the smell of the clothes in the cupboard.