The last day of summer took the hero down.
When you stop believing in things, you become free.
Over-ripe grape and cherry tomatoes lose the rotting trellis.
On the stone marking incremental bloodshed, I sat with a paring knife to cut mythology down.
Heal me!, I cried in the language of the country I had studied for years.
No one recognized me, so I became a foreigner to history.
Take note of the nervous mourning doves on the electrical line fielding September wind.
Of the property of elasticity when the bitter vine chokes your rib cage.
The coat you’re threading with mercurial strings and steel blue buttons for winter.
Hours snare—an envelope of melancholic eiderdown guarding against a looming abyss.
Don’t stare into the gaping mouths of mountains.
Sirens won’t call you home where they won’t receive your elegant letters about vertigo and mis-remembered chances.
The old woman clenching her walking stick who stalks your dreams, refuses to call it a cane.
Days will go by.