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