Sweet south drenched peach finger summer.
But it never was like that, was it? Walked
past the yoga studio for the fourth time
this week bent back over the pavement
kissed the ground for the people
who floated here before. And did they
not know whose name whipped through
trees, traveled through every dog
bark, and every art festival. The Gobble
Jog kicked dust to December and I forgot
what I told myself I was going to do. Take
pictures of the grass and pray to the dirt
hoping a bubble would appear. Carry voice
past the antique shops. Let it dust teacups.
