Autumn Reverie

A strange odd lost duck day all over—
sunrise with a honed edge
like a table saw trembling to get started
on a bait of cured hickory
after an early moonset
left the rest of night dark
as a cast-iron skillet in need of bacon

and then day
when even the sky wore clouds like
a Halloween costume all along
and winds smelled and acted
as if they had dammed lingering Scotch broom–Tamarisk
on their breath like somebody’s great-grandmama
who dipped Levi Garrett & Sons Rappee snuff

not so much a day for the ages
but a day that seemed old, aged beyond
the call of time, when the sky felt like
a Spotted Poland China sow crawled on top of you
to lay and just wouldn’t move
considering you as the future
possibility of eternal and glorious mud

finally rescued by rising sparkle
in the coruscating twilight
scrubbing the sky into gem-glow
and then a crumpled moonlight
night sky of batter-crushed opals—
stars alight for their own joy
asking nothing of us but endurance

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