spin a late summer





















there are songs
never recorded never written down
rarely heard never the same
that change the smell and colour and temperature of the world
that burn the future in the past
that bury the past in the future
there are pictures
that haunt you like a song you heard once
you can’t recall the image exactly
you remember what it did to you
soon enough
stripped of fat and muscle
leached of blood and spirit
will and memory dissolve in the
miracle of nonexistence
that’s enough of dying to be going on with
spin a late summer to its end