The dusk tastes like copper,
Like applejack cider
Drawn from the bottom
Of the early autumn.
Thoughts are old cisterns
(Mostly SPQR but some
Judaean whispers)
The crushing of olives,
The pressing of oil,
The mill and the hammer,
The sweat of hard toil -
- All ready to boil -
All time and all summer,
The sounds of thunder
As something
Draws near Fort Sumter.
No more than
The sound of thunder,
Do I now desire
To be someone.