Another vacant month.

Outside the trees are trembling;

The loose elms

Emptying their calendar of pages.

 

Everything is quieting,

Dimming,

In the light of evening

 

You’d need sharp eyes

To pick the poor fly

Amongst the petals of the peony

Perfectly intact,

 

Except for life

That must have crawled out

While nobody was looking,

Like the stuntman

From an upturned wreck.