Asters—sweltering days

old adjuration/curse,

the gods hold the balance

for an uncertain hour.

Once more the golden flocks

of heaven, the light, the trim—

what is the ancient process

hatching under its dying wings?

Once more the yearned-for,

the intoxication, the rose of you—

summer leaned in the doorway

watching the swallows—

one more presentiment

where certainty is not hard to come by:

wing tips brush the face of the waters,

swallows sip speed and night.