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Sport 40: 2012

Late September

page 170

Late September


Heavy clouds in a September sky
and the ground reaches to take them in,
the houses straighten up, the sycamore,
heavy with night, opens its hands,
and the brackish stream, only now
dragging its feet like a prisoner,
sings to itself in the morning.


Then, quiet, and time is inside me
and dreams the dreams of the dead,
without a care for the life that runs aground.


So it was that the truth found its way
into my house by mistake, erased the scribble,
and eased the pain for a precious hour or more,
then settled on the heap of wreckage
that night had left to me.


Only the cats refuse to be fooled.
They pad in and out as if the house,
too, stood in ruins.