Attic Lights

by Wade Bentley

On dog day Saturdays, when Paul and Ann
Sit still beside their cardboard sign and wait
For thirsty crowds to stop and drink their wares
Of tepid yellow, and when hours of prate

About the general going to hell of things
Has settled on my parlored mind like waves
Of musty, sunlit dust, I cake my leave
For cooler, attic air: The mauve enclaves

And shadowed nooks where all my leeward life
Lies boxed and fading in the yellowed suns
Of fini re days. I whisper golden flecks
From off the broken frames, the tarnished guns,

The birdcage of a sickly, yellow bird
That sung until it stopped. My wicker chair
I place among these gathered ghosts, and rock
The noons to afternoons some ocher where

Than now. The evening breeze begins to rasp
And rattles through the brittle, tinder trees
Along the silent house. And sweat dries cool
Upon the grass where crickets gnash their knees.

Wade Bentley graduated from BYU in English this August and is now a graduate student in
English.