faint people in their summer twill who roam
the nooks of fast receding greenery
phantoms in their faded denim skins
with faces blurred by faulty recollection
or is it us the two of them i see
turn overleaf some distant august
all that is left is child's winter taste
of the first swallowed snowflake

there is a lemonade stand at the land's edge
with customers so full of sprite and grace
where time like an immemorial 8-track reel
is ever sweet and short yet never ends
where summer never fails but always stops
short of its wretched destination
and those of us who look beyond the edge
end up with their faces blurred like this
whose mouths never find their proper place
groping for grammar

sometimes i worry that the hubble constant

supple was your breast under that slippery twill
your mouth was then where i could always find it
are we still stuck within that 8-track curse
like flies circling the mighty treacle tree
what we believed was time has long run out
the sun is hovering unsaid between us
speak slowly we are running out of words