The ants move slowly,
lost in the scents'
crisp fading to sunlight.
 
Throats clump parched
at noon, even yours,
as you watch a breeze
rouse dirt into the haze.
 
Across the street, Joannie
is no longer a girl.
Sweat remembers a night
of long travel where fingers
played elegant waltzes.
 
You do not dance,
only compose; and now
eighteen is omniscient,
the ants, dull feelers,
dry bodies to bead
in gourds at night.
 
But no one here rhythms
or watches the wheat.
Green has spoiled to yellow
years in sun-raged silver
the elevators pour.
 
Husky fogs set in youth,
dream of golden domes--
their lighted dazzle
pretend for neon.
 
Down the road, a billboard
teases with fresh paint.
Joannie bites the apple.
 
You tasted a freshness once,
the musk of sweat.