vega

early this evening you dropped by
                 to lean against pillows & talk
                                    about needing. is autumn really

a season of grieving? i want you
                 to tell me what you think. although,
                                    now, the lotus leaves will soon be

over with, still new grown ones are
                  just the size of cents. the heat is
                                    tall, robust & not yet ready

for the end of her. deep in the forest
                  at the foot of trees, a rabbit dies &
                                    in death feeds blue flies, their blue

the joy of living earth — when
                  they dry up, the autumn swells, flows in,
                                    the courtyard stone becomes as cool

as water resting underground,
                  as cool as late sky to the touch.
                                    as patterns cut from dark by eyelet

curtains through which i scan streets
                  for a face that’s not yours. tonight
                                    all things come flying in fast &

at once. the weight of fallen stars
                  indents my roof, birds flock so thickly
                                    they move clouds & now the galaxy

is endless over me. & you,
                  cross-legged in your corner of the night,
                                    blowing (with a handheld fan)

the fireflies around.