Sun Sets

It's hard to accept the first leaves yellowing like middle-aged parents.The road is deliciously black, newly paved, its oil ablazewith plumes of setting sun.

It's not my imagination: the boy in the trucknarrows his eyes in my direction. He wants mebecause I remind him of his mother, the bitter pleasure

of wanting what couldn't want him.He reminds me how angry I am, how much I hate 4x4s like his,buffed by loving hands.

The frogs have fallen silent, crickets and cicadasfiddle at the rootsof the sky's burning city, the crimson heart of summer

skips a beat, suddenly older, riper, slower,rubbing against its own demiselike one thigh rubbing another. A nearby dog

yelps as though it's being beaten. The first leaves yellowon limbs still growingpast the sinking sun.