August eases into September, a slick slip
under warm water
Only by October I realize I’m drowning
In the mirror I watch my eyes droop, a Dalí
of self-abandonment,
unrecognizable form divorced from daily
baptizing by lake and sun and glass
In the heat of summer the artist sparkled
at my fingertips
Eyes like emeralds and skin a prism of glass
Hopefulness, imagination sprouted
like spring seeds
When I turned, the current swept me away
with a whisper about falling in line
By spring I have wrenched the beast’s
fingers from my throat, color coming to the surface
But heartbreak is a gust of icy wind in the shade
knocks me sideways–a door opens
Sunlit gold tip grass, my fawn legs totter
forward, what rests in wait
Water drapes over every rock, I’m there
again bare skin slick, can I have it all
August blooms on the horizon, the leap
is coming, fingers unfurl from the rope
What lies below each passing memory, what landing
awaits my beryl body, my glass heart