It was August, and she called me flower,
as though I were the dearest of her cats.
The dusk flowed in with caution
and a restrained and sad light
punctured her eyelids and her brow.
I should be manlier, I guess;
some of a satyr -
rough if tender,
waiting by some Arcadic fir.
Flower then I was,
transient on the side of a road,
glowing on the charm
of my dying irrelevance.