On the cusp of September the ruckus really begins
by equinox three weeks later,
everything’s already died down
or settled in
to the next chapter of the seasons
of the book
of the year
The shadows have consolidated into their blottiest ink
Summer given back into the hands of a seasonless and queer architecture
left coasting down and up hills
-seven sisters sigh
as the shuttle shuffles by
preening in its stopover
cavorting before heading south to fell the trees
the mouth of its passage
eating not money any longer, but wood.
Composed originally as a voice memo while walking around my neighborhood, which is hilly and on the border between rich white Noe Valley and gay white Castro (Eureka Valley), and one block from a main artery for traffic and now tech shuttle buses.
Refers to the cultural and physical geography of the area, and the quality of light at autumn equinox.