May the wine uncork the words.

Three hedge apples by the road

Two days before October

One hour before sunset

I’m standing at the blackboard, chalk

In one hand, eraser in the other, and

Just when I think I’ve got it balanced,

The molecules get scrambled

How quickly it turns, the time,

Days racing by like rockets

Barely glimpsed then lost to the

Horizon, gone before we could

Make out their markings,

Much less their destinations.

The flowers are scraggly this year, less bloomy

Than leggy and faded as if they’d already felt

The first frost.

My feet are dirty despite the shower,

And I’ve decided I’m fine with that,

A sign of character . . .

Nothing much to say tonight.

The patio is fixed, at last,

By my labor once removed . . .

Daylight stretches longer than my legs

I’ve been reading again . . .

I’m staring at this page because I need to put something on it

Broke out the push mower and cut

The backyard before the rain comes

Tomorrow.

The air is filled with mayflies mating,

Flying crosses conjoined at the base—

Best sex dream ever?

I carry me

everywhere

like a turtle shell

Here sits the glass half-filled, the missing half

Already drunk or never poured—hard to tell

From glass alone. More evidence is required.

The current says Here I go, and

There I am

The first patio evening of the year,

And I am watching the clouds . . .

My Anglophile is showing . . .

Nearly 6 p.m. and still there’s light—

Dim and dimming, yes, but light

Nonetheless.