Doors swing open on loose hinges.
Poverty’s a state of mind.
Cuddling like two gray pigeons,
Two lone shadows intertwined,
Searching in the eyes of August,
Down the emptied water-well,
While the wind, so dry and raucous,
Sweeps the body’s every cell.
Hot and humid, lustful dreams,--
Women wearing see-though gowns.
The temptations will not cease.
In the chest, the clock resounds.
Hands of time strike faster, harder,
Almost echoing the heart.
Autumn,-- questions disregarded,
Autumn,-- foliage in the yard...
Memory, lost in the sawdust,
Wanders aimlessly, perplexed.
There is only August, August
There is nothing coming next...