I've tried to disregard your charms, your greens
and golds and buzzing grasses, your open win-
dow letting in what fools will take for warmth.
I've tried to taste your apples, and not think
of what it means: the first bright burst of red
is when forever bleeds away, withers
like the man who tells his children he is
ebbing into death, and all your sunlit
stones and scattered asters cannot save him.
Oh month of nines and false beginnings, I have
too long believed in you. Goodbye to all
your radiance, your heavy moon, bare skin, and
empty promises. It's time I gave away
your weeks to the early caw of blackbirds.