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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Active Entries
- 1: We dig for the gods that leave no bones
- 2: Now there's always someone else in the back of your mind
- 3: I've got no roots, but my home was never on the ground
- 4: Ma twll yn y pridd yn Alltwalis lle taflaf fy mhryderon
- 5: There's more room on the basement couch
- 6: When we take on new bodies, I will scour the earth to find you again
- 7: And the fisherman collects, yes, they collect the sounds from their nest above
- 8: A kidnapper wouldn't jump into a cold sea
- 9: A stranger light comes on slowly
- 10: I might fail math if you don't move your shoulder
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