Last Wednesday in July
  Marie-AndrĂ©e Auclair

night clings to eaves of buildings sluiced by rain
sidewalks blossom with umbrella flowers

a crop for no florist but the eyes of coffee drinkers dry
on their side of the pane

outside planners and forecast believers wear boots
the optimists, their sandals on, walk faster

buses pant and shake coats of rain at every stop
clear windows for their closed-eyed passengers

one to a seat, burrowed in fraying shawls of sleep
greyness dawdles close to the dawn beggars

the air finds its back-to-school smell
it is Ottawa out here, no longer summer

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