The spiderwebs are all that is holding this together everywhere now in these odd days that exist between summer and fall the same stale heat or frost at dawn the sun ceding more readily the punch hole moon the geometries of birdflight anything could happen when did that become a threat?
The sky now the correct gray– sea-derived, the summer’s fires gone out, the focus turning slowly inward, like a tide returning, an impartial action, attribute to it whatever you’d like, it won’t attach and it won’t last and that is some sort of beautiful– every night a blank page. The gingko starts to shiver
After a fall the margins of a bruise, lilac, ugliness is only contextual. How quickly a state changes, at full speed and then fallen, been befelled, complanate, decumbent, laughing at the slick night, no pain, yet, just awareness, again, of sublimation– run, ran, running– of location relative to the hard dark plane of sky.
With light, a shadow, after the tide, an ebb– Nothing wholly itself, everything containing a trace of its own leaving. The yellow morning catches in the spider web’s sheer girder, an ode on capability, and a dirge for the inevitable– There is a chill now at dawn. Sometimes I don’t know what to say: It’s no joy to always consider all that is possible. The gothic ruin of these late October maples, a pang of […]
Time like a river ebb and flow they said it won’t rain but it does seem likely the distinction of morning becoming more and more opaque and drowsy warm bedding regaining its succor half-asleep I turn my thoughts to you always always a comfort a bauble for my den
Putting away the sun dresses, the summer has carried us here– there’s an edge in the sky, a mix of blue with hard tin, wan through half-shut blinds as the window wiper descends in a perilous descant. Some movements are immovable, their arc and conclusions, fixed.
OPTIONAL POETRY 