september

a month i love to love to hate
cimmeron and cinnamon, chimaera
a wind the other day blew down
my glass-eyed eyes
(staring into nothing as i walked)
stung by raindrops

how are brown crusts in the street?
whirling in a tiny dust-devil figure
--two exchange students surprised
coal hair and cream arms flying up--
and the cloudy sky brings a chill
november's breath

a flight, neither curt geese nor chatty ducks
but still streaming southward
hearts in winter homes, warmed
as you will mine
under a drift of maple leaves