Dying Summer

Autumn twines, and tides
will come in months to
wash away the
heat
and the shit
out of our minds

leaves will fall every afternoon
(planned, we're certain)
like glass from the broken heaven
that rains
as an old man sits crying
like a wounded thermometer
soft enough so only the stop lights
hear it
and a young man in nurse scrubs
crosses the street carrying
a small box filled to the brim
with bleeding hearts

summer dies in the bottom of a wine glass