the sweetest Septembers
begin with sin,
and the best Octobers
are forgotten,
stored in a cooler
with meat
from the mighty hunt.
vilified, we dream up
the thirst we need,
and seal envelopes that will sit still
on bookshelves between Carson McCullers
and Truman Capote for decades
unsent to lovers
left behind by life
and life's disappointment tentacles.
this time,
be my only girl,
and through the thicket
there is a lake
into which I will wade,
my dear fear.
when it's remarkable,
started a new page, a new envelope,
and now I want to build something,
a table or a chair.