tuesday, september 26

insectember

flies in the living room stillness
boxelder bugs thick on the screens
sluggish the cold coming nights
drugged and dizzy in the brown grass
grown fat in the web beside the door
frantic and fading these small lives
tempting the fablemakers to speak
but i will have none of it
i am going down to the mailbox
past the anthill and the dumpster
and afterwards i will return to my chair
and my autumn will die off in idleness
while
everything rattles and dreams.