across the street, two men
argue over the ubermensch,
and a cricket hops brokenly
cross paving stones. from

the corner, scrying: how long
have we sung summer songs
and dreamt of october? running
yellows as they slip to fall,

sometimes it feels
like putting a bandaid
on a bleeder, not tying it off
with knots-in-silk. surgeons

would know these things,
but it is too late
to catch the sun heading
already south, and south

again. across the street,
two women argue
over love & champagne.
the cricket is gone. a maple

tree sighs sickening
as it sleeps in an ocean
breeze, and finally
october yawns & stretches.