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