The August Project

It's a straitened time
for me, like the era
parched and full of
small agonies
related to bewilderment

My pumice mind
abrades its home
there are no more arbors

You hear each day alive
in its runnels
a kind of delirious
boredom that, sure
can variegate at times

So you might need
an up-to-date glossary
or something shiny
above the wall
a wing off the sun
blithe in the way
it's taken you up
again in ferment
of air, it's not pure
but it moves


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