November 1

comments 3


A yellow spray of leaves is framed
by the window of a darkened room–

after a week of bearing down
things open up again,

the solvent bank of trees,
thin-limbed for miles,

the pacific emptiness
of an unlit room,

stagnant with sleep,
strikingly silent,

its soft-focus objects
slumping toward memory,

a row of the same shoes
facing the wall–

but it’s negative space
that draws the eye,

these empty vessels can’t
distract from an emptier one,

neither the bright-hued
actions of a broad-leaf maple

preparing to drop
what renders it vulnerable.



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