by Dave Rideout
rounded stones litter the street
downhill the lobbies are basements
courtyards of currents and coral
fishes checking the mailbox
tales of cold in the winter
some of the shape of the sun
shame in the eyes of the old ones
all keeping mum
year-long song of cicadas
in place of mechanical hum
overgrown cars on the freeway
stories of vines up above
whispers of our prior warning
murmurs of reckless neglect
shame in the eyes of the old ones
past of secrets
what happened to us?
those to come will ask
what happened to us?
