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.

“Ants can carry up to five thousand times their own weight. People are puny in comparison — they can barely lift their own body weight once, let alone the weight of their sorrow.”

— Marieke Lucas Rijneveld / The Discomfort of Evening