At night the half -constructed tower is full of light and nothing else, each morning recently it has snowed, heavily, after a period of rain, it is natural and unsettling what fills the hours, open places devoured, as if commodities– mere weeks till spring, and then what?
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
Mark it the world is opening up again even the night is lightening up the late light golden-green the hour squall-hued– you come in and ask why am I just sitting in the dark? A quiet room invites recollection the scent of rain the sense of it, also the sheen of it on plate glass– I’m watching till it’s over
the way a summer day lingers, and the night, too a golden thing won’t go– some minutes are a life of possibility, the breeze shakes the shades and sunbeams shift on the floor like seagrass underwater, ephemeral, summer, how many ways it could go, or stay, first cool of evening, but still light out, birdcall and voices from afar, and summer fruit, the lazy sweetness of it all, each hour rising up like super-heated air, […]
And like that, overnight, the end of full summer— a tainted glass, rain, that striking first chill. Oh there is something so sad and lovely about these first days of autumn: A distance carries more, an absence weighs, a heart grows blonder, gold as desire, as early larches turning to fire, as bold gestures dreamed of in quiet hours, the night gone still. The night that follows the day, the beauty and terror of the […]
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 