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.