Shaved Grass

On shaved grass he lies
under bleached sun
flicking pages like wasps
the dullness of late August
tires and twists hope
in this manchild

waiting for the change
of turned leaves
to carpet the past
is all he has
and the desire
of memory loss

but the wind will blow
revealing his scratched map
to salt the sores
of betrayal
and bleed him
redundant