The kids at the park light a kiteon fire and watch it lift into the sky,while back home later, everything Itouch feels like overripe fruitright before it breaks open. Thisis some mood to have. For how manyyears will I gloss over words, dropice into a glass, count the number of treeson this lot in case something’s changedovernight? No clouds on the skyline,the sunlight awful and brutal.A motorcycle rips the day openwith its wretched and intentional sound.