August 27th

I Whittle errantly in my head:

'August 27'

I am trying to remember the days 

I am trying like the forager

At the end of the age

And calendars meaningless

Into this totem I phrase this form:

The herbs gathered into a pouch

From the walk to see my friends

In the suburbs of hillsboro, Oregon

The pneumonic takes root 

And foliage breaths a new place

New Pressure to the skull

I try to Let those roots be

I look forward

Pressing myself firmly against the glass 

Of my eye

Beyond my gleaning, there here is rosemary

This point stays to me

As if it were the only shard of reality

In the garden

And this at least will grow firm

In the ephemeral forests

I walk now and there is another house with herbs 

I wonder if these people know

What's growing in their own yards

But they do not know rosemary

And I never knew the 27th of august