shiva in exile

the sun is hotter than i remembered
the sky rounder, and deeper blue -
a dome above the square.
the edge of fear brought by on sunday's cooling wind has blown itself out
for now. for now,
earthy smells rise up from the blacktop and exhaust -
through the farmers market, blows a wind that soothes out my knotted back,
smoothes my cinched scalp and clutched cheeks,
cleverly picks out my knotted stomach like a fine gold chain.
with peaches and bread and late snapdragons
with jams of Queen Anne's Lace and watermelon-rind pickle
with cloud-white onions and gaudy purple tomatoes and striped squash in smart wooden boxes
although darkness creeps in earlier each night
each respite from the familiar black magicks of the vernal equinox, the winter solstice
reserves shiva an exile of days
reaps hours, in the days of Reap,
when flight is possible
when hills and smells lens towards me
when some marvelous slaking, sloughing, racing pursuit, embracing desire
climbs to clear the walls
to flee the limits of the city, over the rivers,
floods the canyons of gray steel and blue glass,
to put down hands in the dirt of ten years, fifteen years before, the crisping grass,
without the grit-laced, guttering wash of time spent, and not well-spent at all.