reflecting as we turn from the water

there was such hope
in this morning.
there were springs
and summers all
jumbled up in our eyes.

there were poems
scrawled in neon, winding
between our fingers:
binding, not bound. now
they slog through wet

descent, flailing, &
here we are at the back
of the notebook, a single
leaf remaining
before october ends.

cold settles in
like a low fog,
like tequila hung-
over, like
responsibility.

the river keeps rising,
and i will miss it.
there was such hope
in this morning.
& i am waiting still.

waiting (outside the same cafe where i wrote my mother’s funeral poem)

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.

day-dreaming in stolen words

children chase the shadows
of butterflies round a fountain
of stone; pink
blooms of crepe myrtle drift in
the august breeze to land

teasingly on skin, clothes, hair.
she finds it strange
how every man who has ever said
he loves her has also said
you deserve better;

hikes up her skirt to let
the late afternoon sun
kiss knees, thighs;
wonders. the moon
will be small and orange

tonight, a plaything
for summer’s dying gods.
who will kiss
her noon-shadow,
chase the butterfly wings down

the arch of her back, crown
her summer-glow
like a prom queen in pink crepe,
carry her home when
august has ended?