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.