Poem of the Week

Your book is Summer by Edith Wharton. A smell

off the borders of something becoming inedible.

Between sleeping and waking, almost nothing at all.

There's music in this, there would have to be: a swell

of strings and bells becoming inaudible,

note by note, before you latch on to it. The girl

in the story won't prosper, that's easy enough to tell. 

How did night come on like that? The sky is full

of birds, wingbeats in darkness becoming indelible.