End of October, days recede quickly into night. Leaves fall in slow motion.
I thought my body was mine until it 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.
People only see that side of him. He is still a boy, learning to be a man.
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.
This is the stupid math of loving another human being.
A spider drifted down so slowly from the ceiling on a silver thread.
The old-timer outside the guard station was knifing his own tires.
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.
The danger was my own carelessness, and now I was waist deep in it.
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.
She looks in the mirror above the sink, and her image makes eye contact.
The website said November was a good time for appreciating bark.
On the swings in the park, a woman sounds an off-key minor chord.
My shadow feels my company, my stepping as he steps.
If you are hidden treasure, mine, don’t let me lose what I have gained.
I love it—watching gray light bleed out over the makeshift bed on the floor.
Bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, and fill all fruit with ripeness.
You smile into the phone static, the breath of your beloved.
This morning drifts of sand hissed along the shore like mist.
The slow-falling leaves contain the space of the story I’m pursuing.