September

September.

Across the way beneath the writing on the wall

two lovers sit, having a cigarette in the waning sun.

 

Their fondness looks relaxed, though they talk

with lively gestures involving arm movements,

 

bodies turned urgently towards each other

then towards the western sky; hands flutter

 

the sunlight touches each silent word

touches lip’s impressions kiss the air.

 

Those lovers, came there, to leave moments

of vivacity, outlined in fragile script against

 

the night coming down. Those lovers

were there to take the edge off the omens,

 

to make the dreams of lovers and poets

seem real, though they never would, but,

though they never may be real

illusions are the stuff of irregular torment’s

erosive stripping of the heart and agony

 

hammering an anvil in the soul. So take away

the words and let me have the lovers in the sun

 

as a movie without sound, a mime, a painting,

a silhouette: fugitives from life, ‘star- crossed.’

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