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
drawn-out
and exhausting.
