anatomy
In the tenement
of the body
generations have left
their mark.
​
On the stairwell
of bones and the
walls of flesh
illegible words
​
are scrawled
in invisible ink.
Windows look down
on concrete gardens
​
where live buds
force themselves
from sticks
of trees.
​
The genes are doing
their scheduled work.
Clutch the banister,
hold on tight.
late september song
With the sound of
a freight train
rushing
through the trees,
the first strong
wind
​
of autumn
makes each
leaf
sing the song
of its own
execution.
bronze bells of autumn
Alhough I've made a kind of peace
with those I loved who are already dead,
bronze bells of autumn, in their minor key,
toll for the losses still ahead.
​
The weather tells a narrative of change;
the wind prepares a path the geese will take.
This frost is beautiful, and yet it kills.
The harvest moon drowns in the lake.
​
I love the dark (it moves so gradually)
but love still more all it will erase:
these swarming leaves, this pungent smoky air,
the youth you were, your aging face.