notes on days

spinning along the tightrope shadows of telephone wires
and the constellation crunch of fall's first fallen,
though the days lay dogged and panting still
the underlying heat subsides into the liner notes
of stolen LPs pouring over star maps at the bar,
charting the course of cool breezes from dream
to rust in the trajectory of meteor showers and silence
and long walks in harvest moon hoodies
hanging from the eaves of the hospital
with a stack of hotcakes.