A month ago,
the same sky that now threatens
to bulge down from heaven
and flatten the fallow land
was glistening blue
as packed
Park District pools.
Now, the birds have whisked
the sweet summer air southward
on their beating wings,
and flower beds
are burial mounds
which even the fastidious
bees have abandoned.
What use is it
regarding what's left of the harvest,
gathering wool and
clever remarks
with our bodies now hiding
the same aging machinery
of departure
drifting wild through the cold
soundless universe?
