This Season the gods or scientists rock cradles and burn leaves.
I want to carry our harvest
in baskets, with apples and salt, over my arm.
we need colored strings to tie in our hair;
we need ink to draw on our faces.
the season is coming,
and I want to drink from dirty glasses without caring;
chew sugared gum, pink and gritty against my tongue.
the season approaches.
the wall-art hangs crooked.
something near the road smells forgotten, by accident or omen.