June

The Katy Trail smells like honeysuckle at night
and every few miles, cannibas
I wonder if my heart will train as quickly
as my body
like when I picked up a bike
looked down at my feet
and said, pedal
Lonely is a whistle now
a humming windsong
and tonight this year's cicadas
There are natural disasters
to the south and grand ol' parties
organizing to the north
but here in the center there is
nothing but a river,
a boy with a red tongue
a girl who wakes up angry
a man with new stitches in his skin
and the bluest bird
lost and displaced
un-homed away from the sea