Kite Dreams

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Foliage in abscission
Ants scampering sensing changes
In the ambient environment.
The days getting shorter, the nights
Made for love making, like a broth of soup
Heating on a flame.

The kites turn in for the season.
No more bright fireworks of the orbing sun,
The days get lazier and in the night,
You shuffle cards packs, and banter
Around a logwood fire.

On this brown-red horizon
Leafy parachutes drop from the sky,
Each a summer memory, a line-drawn sketch,
That like the veins of burgundy leaves
Is made to carry water, from ocular reservoirs
To doming hemispheres.

Throats carrying sentimentality
Eyes like gargoyles, gargling
Impressions of nostalgia

Solvating the doming eye,
Unhinging a trace of mercury.

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