Frank Corcoran

Warm, yellow butter melts behind the pulled blinds and window shades as , outside , the trees and snakes and yellowed grass and brown flowers and plants are baked a grand ochre entirely. Soon honey-moon September will cool down a degree or three and evening balm ´ll be mighty, the half Garibaldi smoke curling up to the night sky and the harvest moon flitting. Maybe the obscure longings will long for their tones and half-tones, be boxed up, shuffle, threaded out in long melismatas or short horn-calls, a lyrical moments in the flux, the butter-melting slowed down . One more harvest reached , one more summer sweated out on tufa, terra cotta, boiling basalt. Tempus fugit . Hot time is also time. Breathed in delightfully after ” L áfa del pomeriggio ei Alto Lazio”.