Waking in September is
half great half death-
the sexy low sun that pierces
your eyes and the wailing

Of the washing machine. O
sadness, the softener is all
gone, the trees are killing
themselves all over the place-

You are wedged in your bed
like a loose tooth. The imminent
bare-sole pain of the coldy tiles-
the depression! Smudges on

The wall, your mouth, the alarm-
a bastard. White skies undress
in the tsk tsk of autumn rain,
and the summer cries evil! Dead.