He vanished in a Summer constantly sung,
its parts removed and youth exposed like atmosphere.
At a theatrical point, made wholly to gain sunken attention,
he confessed he was vanishing, and the flutter of his organs
was visible through even his clothing.
His sleeves collapsed first, in July, after
plunging parties wrecked in bronze talk,
and by August his shoes had emptied,
given a final stride into a closet of article discard.
All that held meaning at his Summer's end
in September's world, was all that remained:
two eyes, unhooded and blinkless, reddened
with an ever-grinding wakefulness.
Had they any time left? Was he absent
but for a last, youthful sight?
These too, vanished, pleased two in a dominant fray,
his drifty banishment into a daze of comets.
After, his horizon stalked in heaves up the middle-age.
A song, and as Fall began to breathe,
and ourselves singing, we would join him in the lea.
- Ray Succre