Now the sun is in autumn: crisp and moonlit the night before last, palely bright yesterday, today already grey and granite-clouded—if still greener—as November. More than any other, this season for me is stamped and overstamped with past years, so that there are fossils in each amber sunset, currents of faces in the chilling turn of the wind. I am returning home by an older route. I am reading by the wrong light. This is not the bed I should wake up in. Maybe it's not that the ghosts rise up at this time of year so much as I begin to feel like one myself. Two days ago, a hawk was brooding in the honey locust. The grapevines are tangling to the earth.
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- 1: Once you know it's a dream, it can't hurt
- 2: You flipped the script and you shot the plot
- 3: And the birds flew right by and the earth made them sing
- 4: Can you see me? I'm waiting for the right time
- 5: There's nothing here but echoes
- 6: If I'm hoping, then I'm hoping for the frost
- 7: There's no boat to take me where all the stars go to cross the water
- 8: All the ghosts, some old, some new
- 9: The wind is blowing the planes around
- 10: Let the lights run like rivers all over my skin
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