Now the summer air exerts its syrupy drag on the half-dark
City under the strict surveillance of quotation marks.

The citizens with their cockades and free will drift off
From the magnet of work to the terrible magnet of love.

In the far suburbs crenelated of Cartesian yards and gin
The tribe of mothers calls the tribe of children in

Across the bluing evening. It’s the hour things get
To be excellently pointless, like describing the alphabet.

Yikes. It’s fine to be here with you watching the great events
Without taking part, clinking our ice as they advance

Yet remain distant. Like the baker always about to understand
Idly sweeping up that he is the recurrence of Napoleon

In a baker’s life, always interrupted by the familiar notes
Of a childish song, “no more sleepy dreaming,” we float

Casually on the surface of the day, staring at the bottom,
Jotting in our daybooks, how beautiful, the armies of autumn.

photo credit: C. Dingler