Interior, before the turn

September, oncoming chill of October
under the last wet fingers of rain.

A writing spider spreads its texts
between the shed and the fig tree.

I don’t know how to make a promise
that I also don’t know how to keep.

So much is expected— and before any
of it is done, a slackline of errors.

Still, something wants to push
the envelope back under the grating

to the indifferent clerk. That
can’t be just a game of empty

repetition: that wanting to be
more than a column in a ledger;

or the next notch; or a blank,
bristling with unnamed potential.

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