My slanted strides

put pressure forward

Air in the space where we fog (our windows)

collapsing downhill

Letter paper folds

over

sealed with spit

A sink in August

We forget how fast

leaves become cinders

 

In the air hang

unbuttoned leaves

Underfoot, green

mixes mottled brown

Wind heaves branch

cold heavy sigh

A child cries out

in a pink coat

 

Street stones glimmer

black sand underwater

Rush on the heels

of a life lived

Streams echo

cacophonous staccato

A hardwood floor

in this limpid light

On the cracked table

a grey bowl of persimmons

 

Over the curb

rough brick

Apples in the eyeglasses

of a bearded man

Yellow is the tenor of dawn

(like glowing is a word on the corners)

Outside is a day

for smoke and cider

Moons

Quills

White Cups

Wisps of time

(lists)

 

A teabag sits

on an eggshell saucer

The white string

stained with brown tea

Tree hums to the

biggest moon

Windowsills

(for undressing)

A hard hand

crumpling paper

Cracks in the dirt

by the roadside

Rustle

 

I am meeting the early morning

I pass things shrouded in still last night

(and what is it to have been left?)

On the horizon, obligation is waking

a promise put to sleep

How is the right time to begin; when the day blinks

In California, a dog lays

in the lap of those who love him to

love themselves

“clutching” spelt backwards is “pentobarbital”

East of mourning

time has a red hat

(because it is cold)

I’ve known I’ve lost

before you flick the lights on.