III.

The breeze
is earthen and smells
like camomile-
those flowers
yellow, dried, and seeped
into waiting throats,
desperate for home
lacquered in honey
and bitten in lemon aids.

II.

wound clouds,
scraps of drift storm
move like beasts
across a graphite plain.

Over the city they migrate
the disentangled motion
allowed to the sky.

And myself,
the city, slick river,
cars, sick grass
crumbs of glass:
all nonsense,
all gone in an instant.