September in Detroit

Tonight the last cicada

Declared summer over:

“Everything we’ve known

Is done, finished,” she said.

“This old cat will leave his

Stoop, those lilies will

Weigh upon themselves

And collapse, these trees

Will rust from tip to toe

And crumble down to ice.”

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I wrote it carefully down:

Scratching out her words

In case a solemn hearing

Inquired someday about it.

I wrote across the margins

Of letters, on bookmarks,

Etched things onto mirrors,

Carved the rest in wood.

It was all important stuff.

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I added notes on the weather:

The rain on the city was soft.

Candleflames held still.

Clouds brushed the sidewalks.

There were no other sounds.

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