Today sitting sweating in a check shirt,
one dandelion still shining, one to come
(one formidable weed indeed it is).
The last third of September, just August with a swelling bump,
or staggering on with a sloshing paunch, a jug of fruit punch.
Oh, stroll towards an Indian summer if you will,
I think we'd like to lap it up a lot.
Those are the years that get religion:
they carry a myth of eternity right to the sand-clocked
very drop of hieroglyphed leaves.
Hectic benisons scattered over cars at stoplights -
one stuck to the wiper like a notice of prosecution.