churning air
a tired essence
the slow burn of autumn
simmering in the stillness
behind the blinds
beyond the thin slip of
curtians
outside the drywall
and brick veneer
down below the
stoop rooftop
drainpipe and leafy
urban tree
the street still warm
from a blistering sun
oily and bloated in
the west
swallowed up by the
liquid haze
the fan buzzes on
flipping papers
stirring hair
the clock tic and the
television
streams its low glow
coctail of midnight
hour salutation
around two am
something bumps
in the house
the dog stirs
settles back too sleep
something interupts
the power too the television
and it goes blank
the screen a royal blue
the fan in its inertia
never paused
but the curtians puff
with a new breeze
in their sleep dreams
startle the dreamer
on the two floors they
both speak
I will never get used
to that
was never used to that
but now its not now
its not then either
its autumn
and a breeze is
rising
I leave the television
be
I move outside to the
crickets
and light a smoke
something woke me up

...