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OUT OF ******** NOWHERE, DAVID HASSELHOFF APPEARS!

WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?




“Oh there is much to be seen in the sky.”

Setting the stage at the ending
of summer, everything cooling
(actually releasing heat.)

The pale blue is unflecked by handfuls
of sparrows and tiny birds;

they gave way to stiff grey dancers,
herons flapping mighty and ridiculous,
necks curled, toes pointed backwards,
absorbed with purpose. Dead leaves
float windblown across the still pool:
birds of prey are set adrift by the breeze, wheeling
with single-minded hunger--

and those winds are pulling apart
the towering cumulus constructions of July.
Cool pinching fingers tear wisps
from an airy rendition of “Falling Water” (Frank Lloyd Wright)
and strew them in scraps and snatches
of their former selves. Dark sculptures
that shivered our hearts
have withdrawn over the horizon, to lurk
behind the mountains and beyond
the sea;

the sky pales;

its colour seeps
at the edges, fading to thin cream.


“oh seen in the sky
there is much to be”