Almost November.
Light the color and heft of lead.
Air raw with rain.
Last night, in a single swoon,
my neighbor’s ash dropped
all its leaves at once
in a weave thick and intricate—
one only some dreaming Emir’s
Persian carpet-master might dare—
green, brown, yellow-gold, plum.
*
Days like this,
I sometimes turn off all my study lights
and box the darkness in.
One lamp burning over my old black Selectric
like firelight.
Its heart humming.
*
Yesterday,
for miles in every direction,
clouds of starlings ballooned, veering & twittering,
over cornfield & beanfield,
weedrow & swale.
Exfoliating. Infolding. Ribboning.
Black as a dictionary.
Black as the wobble at the pivot of your gaze.
There and not there.
Itself and the other.
Making and unmaking.
Metadimensional.
A language all its own.
Congregation & ikon.
*
Early evening,
the sun has finally returned
surprising sky, houses, trees, the neighborhood’s scraggy lawns,
with fresh color.
Spanging gold off west-facing windows.
Its reflected light
mellowing down to the hue of the last of your last good scotch.
Birds homing to every bush and tree.
Little ones.
Bright eyes.
We earn our keep.
PoemWiki 评分
暂无评论 写评论