August is the last refuge of the dead, you know. It’s starlit flickering movie screen opens on 1944 Amsterdam. It was the year the world went mad, and I can only watch helplessly as the Young Girl fades to flame. Her fire burns quietly, like dried leaves. The shot pans left, to 1962. A final, fatal cocktail- one last pose, a swan song extraordinary. Marilyn’s final performance is a triumph, you might say.  The Angel Boy came later. He could have considered other months- but at last, August overcame him. Summertime without ceasing- that was his first legacy. I see a mirror before me, holding the image of an old zia, white-haired and insane. I cannot bear to leave August, this place of the past it has become. I refuse to grow immune, or look away. I am older-they are not. Preserved in the formaldehyde called memory, they go on as before.  Alone, I leave the theater, wistful and broken. I find solace in one day, discovering....August.August is the last refuge of the dead, you know. It’s starlit flickering movie screen opens on 1944 Amsterdam. It was the year the world went mad, and I can only watch helplessly as the Young Girl fades to flame. Her fire burns quietly, like dried leaves. The shot pans left, to 1962. A final, fatal cocktail- one last pose, a swan song extra ordinaire. Marilyn’s final performance is a triumph, you might say.  The Angel Boy came later. He could have considered other months- but at last, August overcame him. Summertime without ceasing- that was his first legacy. I see a mirror before me, holding the image of an old zia, white-haired and insane. I cannot bear to leave August, this place of the past it has become. I refuse to grow immune, or look away. I am older-they are not. Preserved in the formaldehyde called memory, they go on as before.  Alone, I leave the theater, wistful and broken. I find solace in one day, discovering....August.August is the last refuge of the dead, you know. It’s starlit flickering movie screen opens on 1944 Amsterdam. It was the year the world went mad, and I can only watch helplessly as the Young Girl fades to flame. Her fire burns quietly, like dried leaves. The shot pans left, to 1962. A final, fatal cocktail- one last pose, a swan song extra ordinaire. Marilyn’s final performance is a triumph, you might say.  The Angel Boy came later. He could have considered other months- but at last, August overcame him. Summertime without ceasing- that was his first legacy. I see a mirror before me, holding the image of an old zia, white-haired and insane. I cannot bear to leave August, this place of the past it has become. I refuse to grow immune, or look away. I am older-they are not. Preserved in the formaldehyde called memory, they go on as before.  Alone, I leave the theater, wistful and broken. I find solace in one day, discovering....August.