|October 2008 / Volume 8 / Issue Three|
Last summer they fought over garish
plastic pogo-sticks; they jumped
like electrons into puddles
on the lawn, then mud-spattered
and groping for breath they queued
on the whistle at 1:00pm for lunch.
Their parents have a book of last summers
on the shelf, a nebula rising
in dusty columns from the crunch.
Last summer was science: saltations,
evolution, a homeostatic church
for longing worship.
Last summer is a pleasant
story to them now, like when
they found out that they used to be
apes, and their teacher said
the coccyx was where
their tale used to be.
They say that the rainforests
are being hacked down.
|RETURN to OCTOBER 2008|