Issue 3.8

Autumnal Sonnet There is a breeze that blows in in September. There is a glut of ripe persimmons, an orange glow in the leaf litter, light streaming through the upstairs window that the slackening of summer flies let us open. There is one more thing among the things I’ll forget to remember, lost to the sky like a moth’s heavy whisper. There is a song in the breeze if you turn your ear to it, spreading from the choir of one canopy to another. There is something evident in the darting of your eyes away from mine that means our love is over; the great leaves in our crown will fall before they wither. And in the sky somewhere high above the tune now idling in magnolias, there is a bird winding its way south for winter, singing the one song it knows, softly, for everywhere it turns there is a mixture of hope and despair, of freedom and necessity.

That's Another Story The fading star begins another story he's certain this young lady's hot to hear: a tale of how he once knew fame and glory, which did the trick way back in yesteryear, yet every name he drops is long forgotten, celebrities all decades in the past. She feels a little rude, a little rotten, but as he takes a breath she breaks in fast: *I just don't recognize the names you mention,* she says, politeness written on her face, creating just a brief yet awkward tension which both have little choice but to embrace. He fumbles for some common point of reference, a singer or a tune she might have heard, but though she still maintains a certain deference, he loses ground with every passing word. He's flailing now, and in his desperation remembers one he sang so long ago that stirred the girls back then to agitation (a long shot, sure, but hey, you never know). Her face lights up—she might just be impressed now! But her next words will cut him deep and long: *Oh, that was you? I never would have guessed now;* *I think my grandma used to love that song.* No broken limb or loss could cause more hurting; within his eyes there disappears a light. He sighs and breaks off all his futile flirting and sadly slinks away into the night.

Like When the Sun Sets in a Rush Like when the sun sets in a rush, the trees quick to uncover their bareness— do they grieve when their leaves marry the earth? The orange hues turn to soil on a sun forced to darken early, the skyline teasing glimpses of a summer you won't encounter. The flowers that know better go dormant themselves, ensuring they wake up to a kind breeze and sympathetic sun. Do the ones unlucky to the unapologetic season share my sadness? I, too, feel bare with goosebumps littering my skin— a symptom of the cold, or the grief I entertain? How do I tell the trees they will regain their leaves? Would they do the same for me?

Meet the Dilettantes She claims to have read Alighieri, @tabbut I’m wary. Euripides, often he'll mention @tabfor attention. Such blather of Bach and Rachmaninov— @tabcan't turn her off. Pedantic, his comments on Nietzsche @tab(he's too preachy), And really, they're quoting Aurelius? @tabSupercilious.

The Day Before the Party they brought in a bulldozer and had the old fallen tree removed from the garden’s centre to a discreet corner where it wouldn’t be an embarrassment with guests— foreboding the banishment of their decrepit future selves to the shed on the far end.