in March there was an unfamiliar heat
the sun and smog out of each other's reach
the flaxen grass had loosened from the sheet
and caught off guard like martyrs in their speech
old foliage sat exposéd as the snow
dissolving in its filth took in the mud
and sucked itself into the sewage flow
like giant worms emboldened by the flood
a winter sunburn. nothing to compare it to
brash and numb like a summer in heat
that can end without remains
a burial in no coffin
but on the other side of year
my skin is still embroidered with your touch.
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