EQUINOXIOUS

When the summer comes,
we greet its terms

as pure of intention 

and eminently

logical—it’s

obvious to us
we deserve its gentle

embraces, soft
breezes, and fresh
boons of fruit. But

notice, when it up
and leaves, as it must,

how its sudden
departure is

anything but.

This adieu 

sounds absurd;

its premise, rude

as a crack to the face

from the palm

of a stranger; 

its syntax

and grammar,

impossible to parse—

so alien, yet 

personal—and worst 

of all, unreasonable

as a wilderness,
or a virus, 

or this

subtle tinge

of nausea 

which just 

appeared in the 

pits of us.