finny atoms, shivering as I write, and trumpets in the bones
endorsing the season, taking aim and then missing
damp desire, antsy anticipation at the core
my town car vandalized by crows

bleak drama of summer chill
playing a slow gyre in black tights
my better self keeping time with the tides
as the water rises I open my crow-like wings

rain no longer sweet, you’d choose this weather for a funeral
and invite those distant cousins whom you never liked
how can we rein in the climate, this bastard season

permanently pale at the wrong time of year
if nothing else the night still has phases of the moon
two by two we sleep through other people’s emergencies