That Place.

Muggy, damp, and flood-watched: this is our punishment for early flannel and boots, for hoping, for thinking we knew when we were, season-wise. Is today fall? Is tomorrow? Somewhere in here is the equinox. We used to know for sure around here. Budget cuts. Apathy. Hope and possibility. Coffee. Lack of coffee. We are once again at the no-season, the space between, the place of not knowing, maybe never knowing. Christ in a bucket. In a juicebox. In a largeish container, bucketlike, of juiceboxes. The fancies say two inches of rain. Don't believe it. Believe one. Maybe a little more. But know: they've been missing, have been guessing high.

Goddamn, at least it's not August.

Still: It's these interstitials that knock us clean to the ground.