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