***

October bones
and and auburn eyelashes
tangle on the shelves
of sleep--

in the night we scream for the familiar.

Wasn't it one Autumn that
the wind was ripe
for marriage? The fire
had spoken in the sky
and we could only
nod --

in the day we preserve memories in jars with labels.

Purgatory would be like this --
wishing for wind
for rain, for frostbite and mud
and only seeing
a lazy noon sun
and the calm of a desert beach.

***

Amongst the hush of clouds
I find myself again
listening

The violent spinning
of the hour hand
stopped

My broken wristwatch
reminds me that
life is new

I find myself again
listening

and everything is singing.