Came August Left September

by Martin Bemberg

It's the leaving season, and the will-leave, and the left-already.
It's time of year I saw you first, you on stage,
Sing bottom alto in tongue I think I'd probably never.

Learn my love of dying grass and air so thick at night you might could swim it,
Of swims, swams, have swums and the way you hold your mouth
To think of how to say them.

Remember now,
Such that months, having made now 'most a year, have come,
Such as months, having drowned my pages, seem hardly gone,
Much like months address themselves to you:
Much like such is life, c'est la vie, it is the leaving season,
Something old, something new.

It is time of year:
Sing chills from foreign fingers as tools towards leaving vices.
Sing politeness as keeping-long kissers and diplomacies erotic.
Sing enthralling, sing exotic.

Sing calling home
About the boy you met in America.