SEPTEMBER

No one knew where to place his gaze
when she walked into the party.
The corners of her mouth were turned down,
and yet she was smiling.
A seraphim in auburn trim,
gray-blue eyes unclouded.

She was the one note
that closes throats,
the last wave of a tan hand
from the last boat
between the islands and the mainland.

Of course everybody knew her
we’d all taken her to bed,
having never really touched her,
having only spun he bottle.
and we all stopped paying attention
to the women at our sides,
those dilettantes
and debutantes,
socialites in their summer flaunts.

We all wanted to be with her,
run a hand along her shameless thigh,
carve the trees up into arrows,
and shoot them at her eyes,
shape our words into a bucket
and throw them down her well,
try to drain the wintry pools of sorrow,
hear the echo of our yells.

She’s the one leaf falling early green,
scarlet, gold and in between
laugh or cry it’s all the same
her smiles are bright as cloudless skies,
her tears fall light as autumn rain.

Every day and every firefly filled night
I knew that she’d show up,
confidently stroll up,
from down the road, her throat exposed,
as the geese fly south to escape the snow.
Bountiful mouth like an apple,
ripe with crisp and clever sweetness,
shining tresses caress her clavicles
and soft breasts,
September, a bittersweet harvest.