Book of September, First Page

Hell, we couldn’t do nothing last month, the month that existed as only a page squared off with numbers, of lines, endless road circular designed blind; we stumbled along without resemblance to fogless visibility to speak of; spirits in suspension. Memories grounded, the easy sway of dialogue tethered in cuffs, the buzz, the ionic bustle all pulled into smokestacks stagnated. But this morning clarity’s righteousness busted through to save us; a suspense enactment surprise rescue writ with authentic script. Morning yawns like an ad for vitamins, or cereal, or juice, this high western light; now we can see the pitchers again, frame at last set back aright