friday comes in with the crickets,

then the birds.  the noise (not even

songs) of both

are sad.



august this year is cool and damp,

a tragedy,   its own

opposite.  the trees are already beginning

to die.  sleep has begun to scare me

again and so i wait it out,

patiently,
watching my ashtray fill and the light change clear,

until it pushes into me,

quiet and strong,

unrelenting.



when winter comes again,

and snow,

i can get used to sadness

and to sleep.

for now though the weather stubbornly

ignores its season,

stays stuck

and stagnant

and still.