Warm Septembers

Last a little while but not for real for so long,
sooner or later the windows and doors close
and the pavement aches with forgotten words

just as everyone eagerly waits for that one song,
September 21, out from which jumps
the dance accompanied to a final dream 

through a neighborhood grown like a slow friend,
all the while street traffic slipping on by smoother
and an ever greater danger than the day itself. 

Brief Octobers

A foot resting on the rung of a fold up chair
while afternoon sets the draping hickory
beneath a sky dabbed with random clouds,

a perfect thing to do once you've learned
that you no longer know how to walk toward
the address of someone no longer known,

numbers gone, collapsed while living shadows
make all the additions and subtractions fluid
enough with years to rely upon an existent sun.


Empty chairs surround a silent table,
broad weathered trunks clothe the horizon,
grey being adrift while the last flame dies

and I'm gaining something always so large
while losing what's known is only oh so small,
west wind rung downward deep to the bone--

first a whistle, then nothing left but a hum
over the ground where the weight of ash
is a place lain and to remain closely beside.

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