October 11

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Crescent moon
mostly a shadow

mostly nothing
absence of light

each night
listening for

the voice
hearing it

wishing I hadn’t–
the matte of lack

having plenty
but just not that–

the rest is black
but this silver sliver

shiny as promise
pulling like desire

like a hook
through the mouth

September 30

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the garage door
of the building

across the street
flies open

an anxious eyelid
creaking, sleepy

the suns sets earlier
and earlier

these days trail off

this is sharper
an intentional silence

it says everything
it needs to

September 28

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At first the quiet
like a balm

the calm eye
of a storm

but it, too, turns

like cupped palms
all that they might hold

what prescribes dread
instead of hope

it gets darker earlier
turning in

this cave of a world
and still no word

September 27

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the thing about truth
is something is

or is not
it rained

then stopped
no amount

of shouting
will change it

it begins again

it floats better
than hope

and other
feathered things

like ducks
with their distinctive

ambulatory style
and vocalizations

September 19

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lost a bit
too easy to float

in a darkened room
eyes adjusting

static, snow falling
on the ceiling

there are so many
tones of silence

this one aches
hollow as a bird bone

this down comforter
is heavier

it’s the air

between feathers
that warms

flight light
but more parachute

or net
for falling upwards?

September 10

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It is an active quiet
low jets in their final approaches

cars accelerating
all departures

the lights in the half-finished
tower go out in blocks

goodnight, goodnight
the muffled bassline

of some song
in passing

the man-made geometries
of light against

a matte black night
no moon, no stars

just the bright cascade of glass
bottles into the bin

behind some bar
the city full

of emptiness
expanding out like a lung

September 1

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The sky now the correct gray–
sea-derived, the summer’s fires

gone out, the focus
turning slowly inward,

like a tide returning,
an impartial action,

attribute to it
whatever you’d like,

it won’t attach
and it won’t last

and that is some sort
of beautiful–

every night a blank page.
The gingko starts to shiver