Summer’s things are still in the trees
And color the fading grasses.
The scene walks
As I walk amidst it.
The firm red berry bunches
Bouncing with my step

Lacy leaves against the solid sky
Eaten
And stretching out over our air
A glimpse of where I halt
I am a small walker in the earth

The garbage will never leave us
It nestles in the bush
And the bird who will be laid down
Values it in the nest of her babies

The quilted road
Will continue to rise away from the soil
It will bulge from within our leafy membrane
However the sky is only dashed with clouds

We are confined.

A dog is biting me
His blood smears on my dress
And the hollow red leaves twist from their trees

He tells me to stay
And I tell him I cannot.

To stay is to be buried.