bending
late August leaning into you
tippled
with the bluest sky
raking
cold fingers of wind
through
pooled dew and rain
on
the grasses
seed
heading themselves
in
a frenzy of wheated fireworks
before
the dormancies
of
the northern forests
slow
carves gravity into time
into
the tucked beaks of birds
and
the sway rhythm tannins
from
the fallen maple leaves
curling
brown eventually
into
dust that feeds
the
tendril dreams of grow
from
their gold and rust
to
red and orange bleeds
this
morning knows
this
inexorable crawl
even
in the metal lament
of
the cicada
that
surely says it is still Summer
but
the green things know
their
clocks are all angles
and
the Sun is beginning
to
cut into our eyes
and
not quite reach
the
tops of the sky again
as
every shadow
stays
a little longer
like
the pin-hole cameras
inside
our memory
where
the silhouettes
of
every desire
start
to form
in
the bodies
of
light leaning
we
begin fires
to
keep us warm
and
we begin to hurry
like
those grasses
collecting
our heavy
with
our heads
full
of hopes that seed
the
dark fertility
of
Winter’s womb
about
to begin
Dionysus
is calling for every glass
to
be filled with want
to
feast on Summer laid out
on
the table as we are able
to
gather ourselves
to
be sated with how sweet She is
in
savored sips and passed glances
that
catch the turned corners
of
a smile as the hearths begin
to
glow and know
the
kitchen is as good
as
the bedroom might
be
to feed ourselves
with how we stain
each other
just right
sometimes
EJR
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