The way the light pierces the trees, the dawn
which is for all that begins to break the cold
of night, the silence of death. I reach to hold
the browning leaves that litter the wet lawn
in chaotic patterns. The hanging chimes are drawn
with brittle charcoal, tints of silver and gold
limit our being. I don't know if the older
pages turn into seeds, if the squirrels yawn
when they're tired. Maybe the bluejay is a monk
in the maple tree, an ascetic moving right
and left in the morning. My bare feet sunk
into the mud, here it's noon, there it's midnight
and it just gets more confusing. I am drunk
on the way her lingerie reflects this light.
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