46
Lost Golden Treasure
Endless golden summer afternoons,
a mistaken measure of our memory,
a pregnant pause, in which space,
not time,
creates the distance
between experience and ego.
Summer,
the only season we hold to perfection,
or did,
or have done.
We hold our breath,
squinting against the sun,
scanning for alerts,
taking the heat
the floods
the fires
the bugs
even the air,
personally, an assault
on our memories.