August is a strange month, so slow, yet a feeling of anticipation builds for the coming year. I still think of the new year as beginning when school starts, then Halloween, Thanksgiving, winter holidays, etc. Nothing much happens in August itself — it’s a hot stagnant pool of a month — but I feel things starting, whirring, coming to life, wings beating in the distance. Do you?
by James Longenbach
At the end of August, when all
The letters of the alphabet are waiting,
You drop a teabag in a cup.
The same few letters making many different words,
The same words meaning different things.
Often you’ve rearranged them on the surface of the fridge.
Without the surface
They’re repulsed by one another.
Here are the letters.
The tea is in your cup.
At the end of August, the mind
Is neither the pokeweed piercing the grass
Nor the grass itself.
As Tony Cook says in The Biology of Terrestrial Mollusks
The right thing to do is nothing, the place
A place of concealment,
And the time as often as possible.