an apple with a tougher skin.

the hands on the clock
point at two
and three
and i am one,
awake and ticking always,
bare feet resting cold
on the cement steps,
dry leaves scrape across the driveway, mingling with
the ash fallen from cigarette fingertips.

the crickets chirp, a
constant and steady nightsong,
a rhythm that becomes the way darkness
should always sound, as far as i am concerned.

hung on that fence between the death of summer
and the rise of fall,
the breeze is the coolest i’ve felt in months-
and yes, i will greet the winter when i pass him on the sidewalk,
but i will not invite him in.

the moths are dancing
drunkenly
with the light above the door, hitting the glass panes surrounding the bulb
with scorned lover wings
and going back again,
and i am reminded
of waiting
for that wisdom
that surety
that is sold only with age
and mistakes-
i will pound the glass with my body
until i am battered
and sore
and enlightened.
i will return over and over
until I have drunk my fill,
until my throat is raw from singing
and my belly full.

summer will fade, the sun
will head south
to wait out the cold,
i will mourn her loss
and almost cry for the joy of her return.
i will stand in front of her

and say, “look, look what
i’ve learned while you were away-”

then i will open my mouth
and show her.