Whorls in the dirt from the wind

remind one of zen gardens, the

serious expressions of

hunched Buddist wannabes as

thy place everything just so-

the mini-tornado rather less

cautious and its art more jumbled

emotion and the haphazardness

of one of Bacchus's wild parties,

celebrating the yellow-green

morgue of spring turned to

weather sweating out any

memories of those once-cool days.