The breath of late August leaves me aghast
and it is here, on this late summer night,
that you come, revealed
in stage-like misery,
playing your own tragic game aloud.
Oh, the mistakes we are saved from—
by way of windows, by way of props for sky and darkness.
Give space to the giver,
to the blow of what is memory,
for what could have been
the outside of my body, light takes frigid air
how cold you are inside of revelation
where lessons are narrow and the path is August, overgrown.
Far ahead—your way is tightened with what could have been.
No matter—my eyes sleep open to August mourning.
Bring the cardinal flowers on either side.
Soon all that is lush will die,
mistakes will grow again
and so will the flowers.