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September to prism the pane, the sky cleansed of its wounds, the window dirty. You come to envy the death of Pan— how it could happen, an immortal, a musical soul, perhaps a child, someone not strong enough to endure these cold nights that sweep up leaves in their teeth. The comb rests idle in your hand, a vestige of the world you no longer belong to— and from that delusion wrung into thin sun that pools in moss and weeds, between the currant and the hardy fuchsia, you see your own yearning, caught between the beast and the beauty.
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