seasonal

already I am missing your corpse.
the one not yet turned over

in the river

to reveal eyes that have forgotten
why they have died, why they are

not flying

with lids hooded to protect
them from the brooding sleet
that beats upon the rest of the town,
clean and wet like summer sprays,
jet-heavy, flaying skin, praying.

still they do not turn you around.

water logged

as if your soggy brain would be
offended by this, would think itself
slaughtered instead of simply
drowned, and frown with derision.

I myself am smiling, taking my time.
they do not know the secrets

I know

the yellow smell marking the
end of spring and the onslaught
of June, that month of sprinkers
and muddy feet smelling something
awful on the new patio deck
when they leave flecks of clay
mixed with chlorine and the

red red sun above