year(ning) four nothing

The smells of the wings
of summer seduce my village
like roses and arm pits,
trapped in soap
and aching muscles

it is enough to be
I say, the preying mantis

or the regurgitated
fly

The smells of the wings
of winter though, are fresh cooked
bacon-crispy like
the memory of cicadia
trapped in husked skins
and beady red eyes.

it is enough to be
I say, the praying man

of the regurgitated
priest

the smells of the wings
of spring though, are robin's egg
blues like the wailing gold
of an antique saxophone
trapped in vinyl
and a New Orleans whore's heart
It is enough to be
I say, the prey

of the remonstrated
boy

The smell of the wings
of autumn though, is repentance
like some fat easter egg
rotting in hot may sunshine
trapped forever in a myth
and hand basket.

it is enough to be
I say.