The Himalaya

By now the summer has
Pushed the himalayas back
the thorns to brown
the leaves to dustiness
And everything else
mustered into the fruit.

Summer’s hand is gentle;
how it massages bramble
in its soft flesh palm
next to lifeline,
Adroitly working
even as those first low
clouds breach the horizon
to sweep in a whisper
of something else
Pleading for you
not to reach an arm in
or try to sidestep
between the canes
Like a legend passing
into another season.

Continuing the Math

On the row and column ledger
All the positive and negative
sums of months
The Broccoli and motor oil
that combine to make
me.

I stand on the side walk
after a night of pacing
sending the furniture crashing
down to the floor next to my feet
Breathing heavily with fingers
fast running through furrows in my
Hair, my forehead.
Now, after that night
With a cup of orange juice
and snow falling
all the wrenched fillaments in
my heart smooth
but not so much that
I can’t still feel the braille.
Looking at my hand
Running my index finger over
the palm, carrying the nine
I can’t figure it
The math still eludes me.