There’s a creeping in the air this time of year.

 

These days, when words fall like moth balls from my mouth

And you can’t stand to look at me.

Your mother scoops ice cream and I beg you to listen.

 

These days, when clocks move in reverse

And you can’t find the time.

Your father mows the lawn and I beg you to listen.

 

I’m scratching at my arms

(my wrists aren’t used to being freed

from fabric).

 

I’m walking backwards

(my face isn’t used to being stained

by the sun).

 

I’m checking my pulse

Standing outside in the rain

and breathing into my hands.

 

Uncontested laughter

 

“accidental stars with a talent

for squad-drill.”

 

And Hysteria.

 

These days, when I beg you to listen

and, with your eyes to the ground

 

staring at a clover

you point out

how suddenly the seasons have changed.

 

From the top of a hill,

Staring down at a weathered, white house.

Wrinkled candy wrappers in my pocket.

I point out

 

How I’ve seen it coming for months.