an evening in september

the dusk seizes nothing in it's moth
mouth. dark ink tipped trees
collect birds, shake them gently
out of their dusty heads.

i am spinning, my feet are flat.
i cannot hear anything but traffic
the noise haunts me: i gut-ache for bird
song, water falling, leaves masturbating.

the ground thrums with horns, tire
tread. i lean into my dogs thick head
and breathe his fur, his skin. something
organic blooms, i open a window:

i cannot hear anything but traffic.
the computer blinks it's insomniac eye,
i slip from the sunroom to the backyard
at dusk- like a teenager, like a child,

press my face into the paltry grasses,
fecund dirt, a small beetle waves-
i think this neighborhood is so friendly
slip a pocket of dirt into my lip like chew.

the sun lets it's orgasm reach a pink frenzy,
i am undulating between the black night
inside this grass and this dirt
and the bright eruption of universe

that settles easily into afterglow.
i cannot hear anything but traffic.
i think this is why i am crying,
and eating dirt, lying in the dark

wet mouth of an evening in September.

maggie may ethridge