In this summer, we smoke
wood, roll in jargon
fields, chant what books
have not taught us.
Poison sumac expresses
sin upon my stomach.
We scratch with poised grin, cry
Prednisone shrills.
But how many scratches cause a bleed
before expanding? whose limbs will next cover
in tiny crimson hills; ice hot patches
show weakness, unlike the fall
which rolls in unannounced, to disperse
friends as wind carries paper planes,
casting shadow on once adorned laziness, those
licensed unproductive days.
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