This time of year, there are no peaches. All the trees are in various stages of undress. And the moon tends to drink too much and talk too loud. This time of year, you need a secret alphabet. Legal counsel for all affairs of the heart. And a crisp, clean alibi for anything you might do. This time of year, I count down the days. I leave the candles alone. I wear your name again.
In which a long-time record collector decides which albums to keep and which to cull, supplemented by other commentary and poems
