The Solitudes of August - II

Better my autobiography in late sun through green bottles
Than in words. They infect the mind with definition

While the swirl of blockglass still evades description
As it calls up memories of heaven.

They are not my memories, but something shared
Anonymous within, a library in a box.

The skeletons are kind, they move from room to room
Pretending they're alive, because we are,

No history, like ghosts, just forms to make new faces
Recognized. An innocence of sorts,

The way some talk as if the dead aren't at the table.
They need communication that much.

Love is real from lilacs,
The frogs and crickets hold the syllable in their throats.

The fireflies sizzle uncontainable.
The same is true for us. We form new names, to do without.