when seasons descend our streets,
cats tiger'd by schizophrenia
shed color--
disrobing leaves.
Our streets solidify
in merits of Passage
while our steps never land ahead
of praise
we proffer ourselves.
The prey that Drives itself,
infused with Now ekstases,
we unbury
relic caves,
lost languages--
Selves
struck down
not sapped but
infused with amber,
solidified, and paved over.
Matter mints whispy
consequence.
We don't always forget
the killed cultures of November
but we loose their Now
to absence.
