Walk

The blackberries that shone sweaty

like the backs of ants

are shrinking now with all the eyes of summer.

The last flowers waiting to catch light like flies

will swallow their color into soft cocoons and drop.

Soon the frost will pave the street and

scrolls of my feet, my untied shoes,

my back and forth will be lit up

under the lamps that give me away.

My awkward steps will lead you to my room

where I am hiding my bee stung eyes

swollen long after summer.

My muscles harrowed by sleep.

1-18-08 10;45

Of my face you will take a graph
that later will make sense of us.
You have come to visit me.
How will I present myself?
Visitors come with eyes like flies,
and tongues like frogs catching
the most they can of their time.
I never invite anyone over.