Again and again, however we know the landscape of love and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names, and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others fall: again and again the two of us walk out together under the ancient trees, lie down again and again among the flowers, face to face with the sky.
The alternatives of summer do not remove us from this place. The fainting into skies from a diving board, the express train to Detroit’s damp bars, the excess of affection on the couch near an open window or a Bauhaus fire escape, the lazy regions of stars, all are strangers. Like Mayakovsky read on steps of cool marble, or Yeats danced in a theatre of polite music. The classroon day of dozing and grammar, the partial eclipse of the head in the row in front of the head of poplars, sweet Syrinx! last out the summer in a stay of iron. Workmen loiter before urinals, stare out windows at girders tightly strapped to clouds. And in the morning we whimper as we cook an egg, so far from fluttering sands and azure!
She dreams of August in the singing morning.. When all the little things come out to play, When every spider’s web is sticky, lacy, And every kid will have the pinkest day. She fell in love in August as a girl… His smile was melting smooth like green ice cream, She wanted him in August and she got him, He was her love, her every glowing dream. August takes you back to yellow meadows, To days when Grandmas made you lemonade, To nights when how you begged to stay out later, And afternoons with novels in the shade. To kittens that you loved and have forgotten… To mom and dad who loved you for all time.. To him who waited somewhere in the hot night.. To kisses made of moonbeams..green as lime.. August, sultry August, month of magic…. Dragonflies become you…you are rare, Fireflys annoint you with their glowing… August burning month…your love I wear.