Coda (an homage): An Indian Summer Evening

The dying day teethes

On the tinny taste of bus exhaust.

Eight O’ Eight roars away.

Bayside shadows cast and reel back nothing.

And now the toothy breeze

Seizes the silver weeds 

With a violent shake,

And rasps the bayside clear.

Distant machines whir.

The muted stars reappear,

Briefly, in refracted waterlight.

Then, bared, the incisors of the night.

“The only thing that makes one an artist is making art.  And that requires the precise opposite of hanging out; a deeply lonely and unglamorous task of tolerating oneself long enough to push something out.”

— David Rakoff