August is a bloated apathetic animal—
having killed
and blood-let and feasted and
sucked
on the meat
of a tender young June
and a huge July's utters
and fat tangles of rib marrow.
Moist dust from the scuttle
clings to the air, subtly
darkening the sun.
Weary now, even of the
sheen of cherries
and the insistent musk of a
honey dew melon,
it lies still, breathes
shallow,
sleeps, dreaming—in circles
of a dimly
apprehended tomorrow:
the cool prevalence
of inevitable
September—and its plums.
