The Wind’s feathery tentacles makes my fingers tickle
because it’s not the moist chlorine I thought
I was diving through.
The Pine’s scent makes my memories itch
for the steam of pumpkin-coffee-sipping in the front yard ditch,
cupped by the curve, watching the bat’s inaudible pitch.
The Air’s sharp taste makes my body wish
for the lull of the park’s ebony- swing,
the chushhhing of the golden buckled leaves.
In the winter when alabaster shards flitter down
like the leaves once did,
I’m constrained by pseudo-fire and artificial skins.
Remains of My Brains 