Monday, October 23, 2023


Though it's late 
in October, 
and a chill rides the air 

like a blue note 
which flattens out 
the sonorant chord of sun—

and everywhere, 
mangy trees blush 
to have realized 

how long they've 
been slowly, but
before your eyes, undressing—

some afternoons, 
when the slanted light 
is strong, 

you still can hear 
the frazzled hum 
of bees in dry roses

and the high-pitched 
and quickly 
repeating melody 

of the sparrows 
who sing for the meals 
they're now missing. 

And on days 
such as these, you can 
grasp without guessing 

the meaning 
of the enigmatic 
song being sung 

from the bushes and trees 
without knowing 
the lyric: 

the world does not 
wait, and life 
is not long—but it is

still, somehow, quite 
and exhausting.