6/4/2025

as if they were leaves swirling on
wind on the hard soil the frogs
leap from under boots and kick
toothpicky legs to scale leaves
and grasses under red suns
of wild strawberry fruits in green
cities myriad tiny bodies
of cricket frogs throwing non-weight
in non-ways to non-places so small
yet might still be considered

Long Yellow Light

It starts like an ice tray under a heat lamp.
Cage mice lap up the sloshed drops
without any true knowledge of rain.

Every September past 10 feels this way—
A hand-crafted forgetting. It’s been too long
since us adults have had a summer break,
and the teens spend years chewing on their calendars.

Look! Even the trees are weary:
Their leaves held high above them until they tremble.
The harvesters are in the field now, gathering up corn.
Were I a squirrel, I’d hold my head in my tiny paws.

State of Residence

Let hard-fought paperwork speak for us:
This spring, you are here in Virginia with me.
But what’s happened to here?

Our living space
like a wind ransacked garden—
Rose of dishes in the sink
unfurled into cubist disarray,
ends of letters spread across the floor
like feathers from an overturned nest

—as if that could matter now.
Our thorny cutlery can wait.
You are here in Virginia with me.

Augustus C. Grohmann is a multi-genre writer and the recipient of an M.F.A from Hollins University in Roanoke, Virginia. They have been published in The Potomac Review, Roi Faineant, and Dreginald.