dust season

the goats
have
eaten my papaya trees.

and I smell the
dust coming in
my
window.

shifted, lifted, by that truck passing by.

I
make
make-shift leaves from incense smoke.
they fade.

But good news I
won’t inhale
their smoke.
as inside and outside
is dry season debris

I lay dust
still.

someone will
play that song
stuck,
so stuck in my head.