How the broken plates resembled
The moon. This was no accident.
June asked, may I march
In April puddles before
I am August? If this banter
Is likeable, neither are you.
The sky clear of its misgivings.
The heart shirtless of its understandings.
A vibe of sunshine
Goes without shear.
Who will collect the saw
Dust from the changing gods
When we are gone?
(Another old poem)