After Nineteen

Two days named nine to nineteen. The second closes now. Rows keep overnight cool the hands took this morning — tanks still work what went in.

Gates take the hour back. Slight cloud at seventeen. Sunset still twenty-one past — not long after the board goes blank.

The hillside keeps the city the way it did before the glass. No third morning on the notice. Only air between the vines and what already ferments.