In winter there will be
holes in the street, markers
of this August heat that
expands asphalt, makes
room for ice. Earthworms
fry on concrete. Each one
that tries to cross fails
gracefully.

But the nights have changed.
The hours after rain are tainted
with it, the sense of November’s
muffled influence. The grass

is distracted. The maple stares
out into the horizon. Living
things, even as breath is
stifled at noon, are lost among
black branches, stone clouds,
an iced moon.

visually stunning write

Thank you, sweets

that was nice girl

Thank you (((1000)))

beautiful