Tuesday, October 1, 2013

1 october



In the end, it was nobody’s fault—
                I could feel myself believing this
                even as I wrote the line
                for practice at the thought
I could turn the page, but
                any breeze, a letter or two
                any easy shift of gears
                all the metaphors would mash

Back again to letting go—

I thought of things I’d already forgotten
Remembered that it was impossible
Touched tenderly those places

Thought instead of baked potatoes
October yellow in Chernihiv
Apple orchard Shenandoah
Days to remember to count yourself

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