
The End Of August
cool air that breezes past
after the rain exhumes old
memories, buried behind boxes
in an attic that exists as sketches
in a head that forgot about art
beyond the thick silk cobwebs
that never caught a square meal
are melancholic fragments,
old sights crammed into every corner
to be blunt: there is nothing
quite as beautiful
as the end of August,
when the sun casts long shadows
for hours and the summer looseness
shakes itself off to make way for
sweaters and well fitted clothes
i dust off my bookbag to admire it.
there is no more institutional schedule
no long days in empty rooms,
a book between a desk and I
in a mexican showdown
where the losers are my eyes.
no.
i’m already out.
but that stops my nostalgia
like a fly could stop a speeding train.
the beautiful sentimentality
that the cool air brings
hits of excitement
like a speeding train
stopping a fly

