August

I was walking down,

near the foot of a slope,

in a place where

all the winds had calmed down

and all the cottonwoods had shaken out.

It was hindered and splintered,

just as quiet

as it was loud,

when the sun shook violently

and fell out of my mouth.

It tore up the streets

and hulled the edges,

rouged my cheeks,

and left golden smudges.

It did what it did

and so I bottled it up,

swallow after swallow,

until it’d been drunk.