What Evokes of the Dusk Days of Spring by Austin Shroyer

When the california’s name is mythical and true, 

when jacaranda flowerings in messy, piled gulfs— 

ripened, dying violets on speckled concrete floors— 

pile in my creaking wounds and soak my scarlet streams 

with something 

numbing and beautiful, 

refreshingly clean 

I’d leave again with stragglers who know that taste of sky 

to stand listless as the flowers fall and paint the road in stride 

I watch til’ the world dulls around me 

and the sun-reclusive voids 

soon my back feels the patters of rain 

of that god-wrought ambrosia 

in taps 

to 

brushes 

to 

taps again, 

I spill along the way 

to pour my guts and taint the flowerside 

with emotion overdue 

by my tarnished brand of mars 

the tears fall useless and pathetic 

down where flowering husks who once had use for tears 

meet their landing, caught& 

&repulsed into its own sphere of dew, and when rain keeps falling they 

(the spheres of my fire’s excrement) 

run off down asphalt to dwindle in each rock and 

fall to that thin blue creek now 

resplendent and beautiful and replete of acid and sewage 

The sun would not regain itself before twilight, and I arrive home later than usual. To drown the residual birdsong, my mother asks

why do your emotions run so highly? 

for once, I have an answer. 

These are moments where I see that the world is green as it ever was and I bask in that feigned perpetuity.