Another summer day walks back
and takes off its antlers.
You wish the people would drive slower
for that kind of thing, limit their intake,
but I get it. I know what happens
when you hook a ballet
up to a supergenerator.  There is a looseness
we aspire to, not forgetting
the dailyness of skin or
limes in beers,
and we mistake it for volume,
though it is something more
like a waving palm
against the sun, the shadows derailing
into the ocean, the ocean into itself, maybe
the shortwinded memory of a train.