Faintly, just what’s here.
Do fan blades hum or whir?
The washy angle of the light
you get on August 18, a day past
the day that told you summer
has remembered its death
is imminent. No tricks in light or weather.
No tricks in life, really, so that only,
ultimately, the tricksters are fooled.
So sit, alone, with some sounds.
Screeck, or reeech, so tiny you almost wonder,
the noise of bones getting older.
It takes a little sip of your breath,
doesn’t it? And then you say,