A calendar for the coming year arrives. It has photos of ibex and honeybees, and all those empty spaces. That half of this year’s gone saddens me, as after making love, the smoke I crave is now a phantom cigarette.
August is over and summer in its fading fullness climbs toward autumn like an aging, overweight man going up the stairs, pursuing visions he’ll no longer grasp. Now the only moan is the stairs as he mounts them, catches his breath, sinks slowly into fall.