Her lingereyes were innering my soma
in summersprawl elapsing dong of hours
completely, like the flagrance of a horn
arranging all around its golden daze.

Corner had crept upon us. Olding imps
stood gesture in audience, moldered goathorns
tossed our together tempo lustlessly
while greening scened our wane, its sad slope.

Winter was wrong. Therefore that afternoon
the awningmakers out with other trades
of spring corrected storms, sold patch
and sunset panorama to all sundry.

Our previously beating bones collapsed
like wrongside out umbrella ribs.
Belief left the body. Wolfwill died.
Humming of vulture wings was melody.

In that world scented by summer,
contractual, we signed with eyes for ink,
then rose like birdlift to future
to dance with similar difference.

Ben Passikoff is a retired engineer whose poems have appeared in The Quarterly Review of Literature, the Atlanta, Harvard, Kennesaw, Sarah Lawrence and Texas Reviews, Literal Latte, Orbis, Pedestal Magazine and a truckload of other journals. Ben's pursuits are poetry and survival.