The Axel Vault

In September I see boots before
the first rain, vast migrant flocks
flying before the last late sunset
threatens: a strange, nervous pox
which might never find a certain cure
where the stricken fly in nervous flocks

In September I can't focus, I
am estranged, staring out
at the passional sky so proud
to be falling so many
dreams happily dying and by
each day these old colors flushing out.

Is that not the way, in September
of all things answering to
love? To be sudden, elegant
and trampled like the fallen truth
in September when time is so fast
and every moment is the last
moment of summer