November 22

Sadly, I part from you;
Like a clam torn from its shell,
I go, and autumn too.

—

Distance, felt viscerally.
Almost winter, this cool sun

returns me: I rode
a retired racehorse, once,

around a frosty outdoor
track, he was prone to startle,

making counterclockwise loops
at an unhinged gallop,

reverting to a yearling heart.
Ashamed of its unruliness

I put my through its paces,
but really, who works who?

This day is so clear,
a sylvan sky above

a clatter of towers,
and acres of hours–

how I wish
you were here.

OPTIONAL POETRY