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