There is this shadow belonging, purpose unawares
the ants marching uphill and the drummerboy with a plan
only it doesn’t work so well
when the weatherman with a feathered crest
calling upon the heavens
Watered down and dissolves
like a teaspoon of sugar under the tongue
and a fat women with her breadroll ankles
Baking in the swelter of the all omnipresent
Sun dipping behind
There it goes again
Away.