New hills in the Septembers the houses get out
Their drinking glasses to remember—
Trying to forget that they never kissed their husbands
Or whomever in a zoo—
Wet mouthed on the weekend of soggy letters—
The sunlight in ridges and ridges surrounding them—
The birds, oily winged—singing,
Christmas hallucinations—places to take off—
Multiple regresses in the bluer than azure grasses—
The echoes of their children like wind chimes
Saying that they are safely upon their way to school
And now is the time to enjoy all of this—
In the wetlands, in the Peitas of the frog princes.