raking the promise of summer

fruitflies sipping on

old masturbation

and fall foliage

that leaves me spent

and dry from this city

that is sure to be dying

with seed scattered in all

the wrong places

and whatever landing

in nurtured nature

being slurped away

by sexless larva

that get thrown into food

to be cooked later on

but not after

the fermentation

the decay

and the fruits moulding

to the ground

and me

and my hand

as i rake

the promise of summer

with the scratching of cement

*

when a subway stops

for no reason

one absorbs death

and the starving assurances

against the expansive why