for Kevin Young
august is so empty, the rooms are full
of clocks, and they are all too slow:
august is so empty.
the breeze steps in through my window to touch
the plants, see if all is still, and go.
august is so distant, the lofty sail
we loved was yesterday’s azure:
august is so distant.
we wait for a letter to perch on our hand,
a snowy bird to bring us news of shore.
august is so gloomy, the moon this pale
and watchful face above my desk:
august is so gloomy.
and out on the streets those passing taxis
smuggle their bars of gold through the dusk.