Spent August, early September,
a grander destiny — taut webs
span eaves and faded asters.
Frost is the army in waiting,
advances across Macintosh,
loiters on bleached curbs.
I recall rain, earthworm odours
on drizzled sidewalks, leaf
yard salad, warm rooms, windows ajar
and grass torn by a hard tackle,
resettled on shiver pads; cigarette smoke
coaxing the eight ball, side pocket.
Information is inexpensive — books dance
five-four — decisions swirl
at machine gun gait.
Sunrise tints napping clouds,
colour loses direction; spider weaving
from front door to bay window
has yet to visit Rome and we haven't
permitted ourselves to create beyond
the peneplain of syncopated vision.