November 12

The top of the gingko
has lost its leaves,

with a windstorm
in the forecast.

In a sunbreak today
I walked around the lake

seeking solace
in the dockyards,

but found only
cruel sleek boats,

so capable of leaving
that they were no comfort.

These nights are gluttons,
and there’s little left to take—

I could count each yellow
leaf, fine as a petal, yet

strong enough to have
held the sun, once.

Anything could tame
it, now, feeble

at the horizon, its lack
of warmth, alarming,

but no choosy beggar, I
try to savor even the dregs.