summer is sputtering out and fall
is fluttering forward with hammock eyes
swaying in the riddle of sunlit caverns and dark fires.
in my bones i can feel the changing of the guard.
how a sun is plucked up
from a yawning chasm of noel
and black chandeliers.
comets that pray to the ellipse
and never the cause..

but the season rumbles and laments
any aspect of the other.
with the rain pining for blue skies
or blue skies dreaming of gray.
we are joined in the calamity of
marching against Being.
by Being so hard that a link in a wound
is more an iron pillow than a spirit
of Morpheus, Day-walking with a
communicable
Flu.

Before You Flew.