September again fire season is over.
Winter still to begin.
It won't snow yet though, and we know why:
it's too dry.

I saw your face in a picture magazine, cut it, gently, from the frame
took in your nose also your cheeks much the same and walked
my eyes down the line of your brow
and gently off the page.
(I have never once stayed in the same place.)

And the refrigerator fills, dust gathers on the floor, the leaves outside also look dry and I don't hang things on the walls anymore.
September again
that's not what walls are for.

September, I
again once wrote letters that also meant something.
But I don't mean it anymore.