Smokesmell

Today is glor­i­ous.


smokes­mell
in the glass­blown blue air,
and the wind stirs the world
like a gin and tonic
with a long spoon,

- while autumn rots
late sac­char­ine flowers
in puddles and
the shad­ows of trees
pulling their last leaves to their knees
like petticoats -

I am swept away
on this last blue breath of sum­mer
spun in bicycle spokes
rushed through slid­ing doors
into the library

where the trick­ster sun throws
his shin­ing stones
on book­cases and desks
gift­wrapped in lec­ture notes
and the words stir and dance
through their Dewey num­bers,
leap out the win­dows:
the anti­thesis of sui­cide
singing out their syn­onyms,
circ­ling feath­er­like into the sky.

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