Probably the best thing I wrote all summer.

horns down June’s gulley were the
Wicca of my little abdomen,
predominant of age

ever I dreaded
the wait’s weight
so crushing
on that island of a lot
that is really amany,
but my memory…

how many times would little me
imagine me now,
remembering

how would we –
before the gulley –
become so bleak
as to miss completely the
words spoken to stay so long
the fear of impermanence
the visceral reality
the simple notion
nothing is forever
nor can it be
nor should it