September Song

Undesirable you may have been, untouchable

you were not. Not forgotten

or passed over at the proper time.

As estimated, you died. Things marched,

sufficient, to that end.

Just so much Zyklon and leather, patented

terror, so many routine cries.

(I have made

an elegy for myself it

is true)

September fattens on vines. Roses

flake from the wall. The smoke

of harmless fires drifts to my eyes.

This is plenty. This is more than enough.