Odd sound to the wind,
hollowed out by the river
working hard to fill up
the still weeping hounds
invested in your weakness.
The meantime hangs old as
Christmas,
newly displayed in every aisle
come August,
frustrating everyone by the peak
of November.
Dismember the peach you laid to wait
to ingest
in a sultry fashion, boiled up to
a passion invested with
harvested rage and oil pockets
set to blaze
to relieve the catch for seasons.
