End of October, days recede quickly into night. Leaves fall in slow motion.
I thought my body was mine until it became a map anyone could use.
I want to remember us this way—sun streaming through the window.
I lift my wine flask, drunk with rivers and hills.
A strange odd lost duck day all over—sunrise with a honed edge.
People only see that side of him. He is still a boy, learning to be a man.
Let us not forget the desuetude of nailed-shut carousels.
He took off his clothes and left them on the living room floor.
The leaves repeat my fall in choruses more ancient than my own.
I’d have guessed the winter this way, every bitter plum already singing.
Lure, yes, you would know how to catch and clean such a thing.
When he bent close to her, his balaclava glowed silvery in the dying sunlight.
This is the stupid math of loving another human being.
A spider drifted down so slowly from the ceiling on a silver thread.
A summer without passion, our selves pulled together like the leaves.
Each year we fail to imagine how the days will blanch, the air will harden.
The old-timer outside the guard station was knifing his own tires.
The pumpkins are looking up my skirt, making orange a kind of festive.
Ice and evergreen and sun; three moments arranged for human looking.
The current looked cold and brown. It would freeze soon—November.
I am going to relate to you the most lamentable love affair of my life.
Today brings a blue hour, but the jasmine has been dead for weeks.
Dad was blind until six months ago, when he bumped his head in the fire.
Like steps of passing ghosts, the leaves break from the trees.
The danger was my own carelessness, and now I was waist deep in it.
My world must not be made of brief encounters along the neat squares.
I see the garden far away in itself reflected in the polished spade.
Finger tracing the terrain, you hold me through autumn’s loss of color.
Show me your darkness, your nothing-to-see and everything to touch.
I eat what’s in front of me, as all great men do. Some wouldn’t, but I do.