An early frost hadn't dawned on us--
so many running jumps, loop-the-loops and hurrahs;
so what if they were false starts. In any event,
the word is: time to move on.
As a joke, warm June's expectations left us
cold and naked. We had no idea
that desire could so disrupt our nights. In the end,
the playing simply stops. September's birdsong
turns churlish, an underground anthem.
Yellow school buses invade the gray boulevards,
honking. At a crossing, a child looking startled
hopes to keep pace with the passing throng.