It's a constant anachronism
buzzing in my ears
mosquitos appearing
from who knows where
on this verge of winter
with the cold blowing in
and the forgetful leaves
still a deep shade of olive green
An infectious sallow glow
from the television show
while the leaves fly in circles
and the stems are letting go
Winter watching on the horizon • if I could only see that line • November just the final leaves • falling into chrysanthemums
The Falling Leaves
An apple in your hand
brown paper bag
the wind
and the subtle smell of fish
from the harbor
and shadows long and low
frayed now around the edges
pull your sweater closer
a button is missing
Some kind of promise always seems to come
with the falling of the leaves
the barren trees
the seductiveness of melancholy
soothing like rivers escaping ice
death and the thaw
November and the third month
an address is written on a scrap of paper
faces are hidden behind white eyelet curtains
Close your eyes now
and feel the subway rumbling
under and below