a breeze lifted the skirt of summer—
some dashing floral house-wife pattern, speckled
with amaranths and lilies.
in the making of a season’s stupid sleep,
religions of mammoth organs and crashing hymns
were birthed, too far grown to hold within one’s belly.
what whispers neither is the choice of many,
hung despairing from desperate trees,
leaving.
i don’t get it