on this warm October afternoon
the moist air smells more
like spring dirt rising
than parched death falling

this is the last
day of her week
of writing
about the present tense

tomorrow she returns
to her preoccupation
with yesterday

she hears Hendrix
drag Dylan’s
like a rolling stone
through Mississippi blues mud

in the background
purple haze
comes before
purple rain

she knows about this chronology
more than the flames
that burn up another guitar
shaped leaf on the sidewalk

the threat of another storm
shrinks by the minute
as the waxy taste
of candy corn

corrupts her view
of high rises
on the other side
of the hill in the park

she shreds light
with her teeth
to form the words

don’t be late

reaching the next
island that wrecks
the horizon
with its geologically active grin