there is sinking in the breeze that slinks

September streets and leafy trees and blades

of grass that tremble in the wane

of Sunday afternoon.

the evening labors in jest to catch

the moon and stars, stirred awake

by blacktop steam and frenzied wasps

buzzing in a bed of windows.

dizzy breathing, bleeding autumn,

blue eyes rob the sky of cumulus diamonds.

fall backward, the ceiling dissolves,

like a plate of microwaved cinnamon butter.

if, only... oh so bitter, snarls

a rabid dog that bites like winter.