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Early Dark

A vein along the road poised to spill.

Red leaves rim
a creek running
under a footbridge.

I haven’t moved this afternoon
reading a guardrail 
scarred with hieroglyphs.

Things and the names of things 
sinking into sepia, 

                        cold shadow 
stitched to cracked asphalt.

Silence isn’t
a question—
isn’t an answer—
isn’t even itself.

Overgrown grass
in the margin
of an alley

without wind.

Water bending 
into light, light 
bending into time. 

Edges engorged 
by an orange undertone.

       Within one thought or another,
one weather or another, we’re always 
almost here.

              In the time it takes to look:
the surface of the pond
blurs a world back together.

To know the season 

the depth of its cut
by touch—
a tone 

an echo. 

Elision, the early dark

after summer’s
serrated glare

made seeing 

Snow slants through
peaked leaves, 
power lines—

that gap where 
nothing’s said.

A vein along the road poised to spill.

Posted 11/13/16
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