The Shrinking Day

The queen bee commands her hoards to
attack the couple fucking behind the bushes.
Their shrieks sting the mauve twilit sky, cries
of “Fundamentalist bastards!” as the soft pink blur
of scurrying lovers hyphenates the spilling dusk.

The prognostic June sky writes passive-aggressive
odes to itself in pink and red cloudy swirls.

A trial of ants swirl from their sandy jury boxes and,
askew the wishes of their lounging nemeses,
seek sandwich remnants to expand their mound.

The crumbs are found guilty of being delicious.

Waves lick the shore, nearly running away
from the footprints and fish skeletons,
shoving away from the sand in a white effluvium
of fury to rejoin the encroaching infinity.

A ruddy form stands prostrate over a tiny
grill, conjuring a cadre of flickering scions from
fumes and a match, desperately shoveling back
the dark curtain as it sweeps across the lake.

A cuss hurtles from a shaggy young man as his
knee collides with concrete, a sacrifice to the skater gods.
Impromptu laughter resounds from several settling
sparrows, followed by a great bellow from grimacing sky.

It licks electric lips across the horizon as the leathery
thwap of a bat wing startles mosquitoes before they
harvest from the supple skin of supine couples basking
in the radioactive cast of the sun across the water.

Warmth dashes from the park as a shelf of air falls from the
night, stealing heat from the skins of park fauna and flora.

Some hurtle themselves into their cars as the pellets
of rain tickle the grass. Others sit and wait, watch
tongues of lighting taste the water, desperately
hoping this memory will linger just a little longer

in the shrinking day.


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