summer’s last cicadas
move slowly through
reluctant sunlight of September.
Forget metaphysical
revelations in the sidestreets.
The future is hungry
for what we are lacking
it will never receive--
a sense of purpose all but blown
as to those pudgy adolescents
wrists in their hands
I knew, wondering when
completion's achieved
when confusion will slow
when scenarios
will make material.
Teachers say
breathe in deep
when things get rough
but then they say You sigh too much!
On a campus at midnight under snow
and a tree, high as a kite
and panning out miracles
life might take
they smoke themselves an Otherworld
related to in slavery.
Then the India Palace burns to the ground
Caramel light pours from warm windows.
Swing dancers stand still. Weathermen frown.
Eighteen! Eighteen! Eighteen!
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