A corroded summer,
rust-colored,
seeking epitomes in fallen leaves,
the rancid barbeque.

Today a gray sky
is pegged to a branch by two sparrows,
its hem snagged
in the pyracantha.

The birdbath incubates
its twitching insect larvae —
wings, antennae, proboscis
still in the blueprint.

A ladder,
caught at dawn
below the bedroom window,
reaches for excuses.

Who said sex dies
at forty-five?
My pants are still chasing yours
on the rotary clothesline.