My vision is blurred so that all is ripe. Even the sour angry men blend into soft pink. I hold the quiet like a yellow pad of butter on my tongue. My Father’s eyes that hiss like the locust, blend into the trees. He is driven and quick, can catch fire in a word. Only in forgetfulness will he tell me the truth. His tales high as trees make dried leaves of the birds, birds that fall. I gather the cracked brown dust of summer, the bug eaten leaves are my bread, the butter in my mouth is this calm.