I
good thing (November-
wise) that the body is
- nearly automomous
slept, fed and the collective in-
terum Newtonian enough
to over-ride mind's drear of summer gone
good too
that addiction's pantry can
(as mind laments
window's beyond of drizzle and chill)
still andante as trim/ballast
that of coffee and cigarette,
legs porch-wise the whole self's chance
to glimpse some errant robin
wedging dark Aprillic sounds
from an oak still clutching fists of wither
not so good
is the full-fetal absence of April next
robin and green oak bragging a mixed duet -
rut-sounds accenting the polyrhythmics of wind in leaf
these empty the heart a bit,
prompt the thin anguish of a voiceless sigh
nor so good
that night by grace-note elisions
will empty to forrest-deep
the lingers of red and robin bird
instead them with jay-stabs,
the sullen clash of crow sounds,
or the clammorous rorschach of starlings
crashing from air to ground and back again
- heart rues the exchange
how rending it is
to case the hibernati of summer things
a graveless intuitas
beyond which the heart may
or may not live to strum again
II
dusk
cloudless silver-peach
chill whispering into coldness
gyre of gnats
oddly jubilant
strumming but an image
in the gathered stillness
in so few moments
they forge an absence
become they stars,
or huddle in the fixed wing of house eave?
stars are so distant
spiders
have a closeness
one that
thickens dark the more
