When you slid into the slick heat of an August morn, what did you see? Was it the fullness of fruit that first took your eye? And did you taste it, that plum and its wet violet shadow? Did you mistake the birds as frolic and take the song as yours? Did you whistle through your thumbs? Did you cut your lip on a blade of grass and taste the blood as dew? Did you? And when August turned to copper and copper turned to snow, did you fall upon the plush and weep and wherefore did you go?