The world is balanced on its toes tonight,

Waiting for the even sun to fall,


Although nothing hints at last year¹s

Luxuriant recall.


September sweeps into a pile of leaves,

Brushwood blowing down the road,


Nonetheless. Neon sprays of summer

Are dying on the ground, the celestial node


This time completely drained

By a foreign, otherworldly light,


Disconnected from the comfort

Zone of fall - the amber dusk, or bright


Embracing college yards, where the future

Seems so clear, spread out like grass,


Precessing optimistically to snow -

Anyhow, the reasons for the moment mass,


Autumns wheeling into wind, but always

Circling like the skimmers down the skies


To spring, each defective blaze

Of repeated morning new, every rise


A gift, as if the gears of heaven drift

For us, each short, slight slough of sound


An echo of our broken star,

No matter how the ocean drowned


Or ice swept beating earth away.

Dreams that froze the solar floods,


That silenced clocks and deafened trees

With their static screams, were flesh and blood


To the racing endless sea, the perfect

Mirror to the planet¹s pantomime:


Not the knot of astronomical effects,

Not doctored calendars of time,


But insufficient labyrinths we size

To even out the season's winding lies.