October 31

It’s a wash,
a monochrome wash,

blank on blank, a sky
less than sky,

striated by rain
that won’t let up.

Winter rye seed floats
in the furrows,

soon it should dig in,
unfurl, give cover.

Gone birds ink out
arrows with wings.

An instinct is flight.
An instinct is to burrow.

But which instinct is right?
Blight-burnt leaves splatter

the ground, damp
adherence, the aim,

the only real aim here,
to get as far as we can,

stick the landing,
and settle.


October 30

Things that don’t distract:

Kindness. Words
on a page

or otherwise, lines
of any type,

(they all lead

which is what
we don’t want,)

although we do.
Liquids help:

the way the rain
melts down

the window,
the calamity

of the lake,
each wave

while it builds,

cold comfort
going, gone



October 28.3

iii. (scroll down to start from the start for now)

And that’s the problem
with the stars

more alone, aloof than
they seem,

dehisced from
the constellations

we’ve housed them in,
Orion, Cygnus,

they are far things.
The connecting lines

only appear with distance,
the light that reaches us

is old, that star is long gone,
or at least not the same

as we now know it,
a heart grown familiar

growing foreign


October 27


In this brown neglect of a garden
peppers gleam under
a sheen of wax,

warm sunset shades
of orange, fuchsia, red–

resistant, tropical, small
in the hand

and wickedly spicy,
no rat would touch them,

a little bellicosity
a useful trait,

the counterpart
to too much vibrancy,
a swift cure for curiosoity,

as not all
questions are

this late
in the season.


October 26

All the cities went dark, downed trees
cradling parked cars, water pulling
the bridge down to closure.

Lightless, the contours
of the highways grew foreign
and foreboding,

charting black channels
through the island’s core.

But now, this dawn comes
like nothing,

sprightly birds assess
the state of the canopy,

a full ten degrees colder,
smoke tints the air,
all wholesome except

for the limbs that broke
but didn’t fall, the widow

the swords of Damocles
holding on for now,

the fresh-snapped pith white
as in white-hot, as in warning,

as in inaction is not
the antithesis of danger–
it is just a prelude of variable length.


October 25

Enough of this half-way month,
unable to chose

between borrowing
or giving. Enough of caprice,

don’t even call it whimsy,
and all this talk on

the strange weather
we’ve been having.

Enough of strange weather:
the freak tornado,

lashings of rain
from a high clear sky.

Of volatility.
Let your clouds be

clouds. No more
short hope,

no more
false awakenings,

no less, and
no more, either.