Summer’s Last Breath

I gave you June,

when everything was possible.

I gave you July,

when the nights forgot to end.

I gave you August — August,

my golden reckless child.

And you spent it all on lying down.

The king is going!

The king is going!

Long may he tan!

Long may he tan!

I saw your barbecues.

I saw

your

one swim

in the cold, cold sea.

You said next week,

next week, next week

— and now there

are no weeks.

The king is going!

The king is going!

September enters, dressed in sensible shoes.

She turns off my music.

She has a list.