August

August barrels through and passes politely, though it’s large and drags your memory across my feet, wildly slow

All this, while I try to trudge through four weeks and climb past your face which August has spun and double knotted around my ankles 

You are a thousand pounds, a combined weight of grief and weed and rolling rock 

I don’t sit down in August, it’s important to always keep moving 
As you are seasonal quicksand, ankles, knees, waist, heart, head, and soul 

August shoves it’s way through 

Into September, taking you within the first week of the new month 

And I, a talented and sentimental masochist, miss August, in all its 

Horrific memory.