Waking each morning at dawn,
or before
the floor of this house sings,
tattooed shavings of grain, musty rings of old growth
echoes of strings, mandolin, bells, incense urns.
the floor strains, pushes one hand up under my chin to say it is done.
finished or just needs to catch its breath.
August is unwanted mail sitting in a shell
sweating open its envelopes, curling its pages shouting
Summer comes undone.
There in the background, imperfect, thundering, the footfall of a sailor
across the back of Johns Creek Mountain
trying to catch the line of a sail
failing and falling into the drone
of katydids, hornets, gutter drain
dogs disappear
on the heels of fallen fauns
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