August darling

My darling, you will die with the summer
And dissipate into viscous poplar air.

On the black threads of spiders’ legs
And gold threads of angel hair

That reach down through the cracks
Of the brittle herbarium against the blue cerulean

You will scatter into a hollow nothing,
Leaving a trail of scents of poppies and gasoline.

My sunshine, your freshwater lungs
Will swell and fall like gentle lace

For the last time, sunshine, before you go.
And I will count, watching the empty place

That is the sky without your blood,
The breath of insects and sapless leaves

That will now keep cleanly severed off
Your milk-white limbs. From under the eaves

You’ve reached out with a song,
My darling, with a brown-sugar voice

Of two feathered hearts, accreted tightly:
Two rivaling ivies without much choice

For the tremulous future. Those sounds
I’ll engrave in my mind like a vinyl moon —

Anesthetically enchanting. But like wind,
I regret, my sunshine, that you were gone so soon.