Indian Summer
Donna Pucciani, Ph.D.
Hot as dust in the throat,
Fall unraveled one night on October.
Cataclysmic orange dries to
Brown amnesia, every leaf
A shred of wanderings and whispers.
The yellow moon steeps autumn,
Brews peppermint and pears.
A woman in a window strums
A guitar, weaving a spell of branches
And desire, drinking twilight
In a wine glass made of bats' breath.
A train whistle, lizard-long, cuts the dark
While stars like the souls of fireflies
Bead the indigo sky.
