Poetry Has Fled My Core

I’m left in the liquid heat

of late summer

without a song

in which to take solace.

 

The air is thick

and doesn’t move.

The weeks ahead

will be languid, too,

unless a thunderstorm

breaks the torpor.

 

I see little chance of that.

There’s no breeze,

no momentum.

 

There’s nothing left to hope for

except winning at Lotto,

and the crisp renewal

of autumn.

 

How is it that I see new life

in the blaze of dead leaves?


8/28/92

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