When a diamond becomes rust. The violet rise of smog
from the soil.
The summer becomes winter and then back again.
And winter becomes summer only to find
that the trees have not forgotten their names.
That the park is still open across the street
and that televisions open their doors at 6:00 AM
every morning and the little people inside begin
their talk shows. The silence becomes something whiter
than a shadow across a map.
Do you remember me, my name was cherished.
I was in fourth hour gym in basketball
and my name was Chris. Do you remember me?
My father helped build the baseball fences on that Saturday.
Imagine me as a child, “So Andrew, what did you do this summer?”
Hand me the Vodka. I have one: Is it spring?
We are the carnivores who devore the scripts handed to us
and then there goes Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday.
No seriously my name is Chris.
September 