Written by: Glen Enloe

Indistinct things
In night’s malaise
Mar morning haze.
We slowly die
Across far sky
On scalloped wings.

September hones
Away the nights—
Blur city lights—
Bleach pale claw marks
Above brown parks
Fading to bones.

Summer now flees—
Blanch indigo
Of afterglow—
Patina wind—
Yesterday’s sin
Of twisting leaves.