June is water, the ruthlessness
of monsoons, wild, wild winds.On and on the roads roll on,
dust giving way to an imaginary chrome.
I walk knowing the few things that last
outlast even me. Sometimes I spot
the carcass of a bird heavy with rain,
a cat licking away grime from feather,
feeding. Sometimes a fruit
decayed from summer peeking
from beneath a soft wound
of leaves. Solemnly the world
turns on its axis, the clouds yield
and return, and over and over again
the seasons give way
to an almost sudden rust.
The weather waits for no one.
There must be a reason for this
that we must live our lives
looking up, thirsting,
straining to find out.
