Its dalliance with the earth
almost spent, the sun-disc
floating in totality -
where no one is left sleeping
after a night like that,
its fingers lifting
from what it touched
(to cure? to injure?) -
rooftops, fence posts,
the shadow leaves of autumn
it lifts up and away
as if late for the lecture of oceans,
this fugitive caught in the act,
trailing lines of web and
smoke. Particles grayed yellow
by the scion, milk-scored
umbrella folding back into its handle.
This is the swan song,
this the thick obscuring mist.