IDES OF SEPTEMBER

It is nothing, really, but a damp breeze
through the screen door rattling papers
on my desk, clearing the evidence

of last night’s flat bread from the kitchen
before returning to morning black—
light drops on a metal roof.

Fourth dry summer of drought,
it sweeps dust from my brain,
teases hair on my bare chest

as if I were wild, alive again—
as if we might escape this hell,
rinse the taste from our mouths.

Too early to storm, it is nothing, really,
but a damp breeze playing rain—
a few gods revisiting survivors

and the dead—playing with the possibility
of change. Once again, I am reminded
that nothing stays the same.