Eszter Takacs, 10/12

August flies by in five minutes.

Saw tooth days, each a spine inside a sapling.
When you arrive, it is misery.

When you arrive, everybody talks about everything else
simply to avoid the misgivings of honesty.

Here today, you will have died by nightfall.
Oval shaped mercury moves through your veins,

little separated crafts housing the minutes
before lift off, which in your case is death.

Morgan Stanley is something on the television,
a commercial for money that has already been spent.

The kids, teenagers now, begin a new phase:
Rorschach Art as a flag for unity.

They hang everywhere, like sweat off a life gone south.
What does this remind you of? We are here and that’s that.

In the next phase of the building sequence,
brick and mortar, plot to plot, as it thickens,

we decide to procure a garden of truffles
to be hidden by a garden of tiny new beings.

These are your fingers, as they fall in the dirt.
Each has new meaning. Each blooms with vigor.

We listen to new jazz, a surrealist trumpet on the radio
and the sound is ruffled with the distance

between us and the city, the halo of marked roads.
You have lost your breath along the way,

and we wonder about the morning.
We paint your face gold without shortage of color.

You become a kaleidoscope and we are envious
of your hesitation as we turn you over in our mouths.

The days begin to clasp and fasten together,
impossible Earth sinking agile to the lake floor

and I make a promise to starve you
if you enter me and sink to my bottom,

innards leaning to this embryonic statue.
The newspaper is something new to this stage,

nothing we have understood, its lines ridged
and scallion scented leaves arched in your hands.

You wave hello but nobody understands you.
The sheets have wilted in your hands by morning,

bending because we have left you on the porch
and sometime during the night, August rained.

Two thoughts occurred simultaneously on your face
and we turn on the television to hear them.

Promote. Poetry.
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