in the morning fall

in the morning

the blow of chill rustles aimless

as a rusty leaf will rattle until wet

there is a conversation happening

somewhere

in which two people disagree

about aesthetics, about housework

and division of labor

about what it is to feel love

and to show this to another person

whenever we can

about the past and about what it was

the words

is it that we don't understand

is it that their meaning is the color of leaves

waiting for this breeze to break

away, stem brittle where the twig grows hard

against the cold

is it that this morning holds these castaways

is it that you are an oak unto yourself

is it that your roots are deep

and will remain and will remain

is it that abiding will be solitary

is it that the wind collects these leaves

her fingers strong and cool

so stepping out you must awake

and though every breath intaken has the scent of leaving things

is it that we believe love thickens

and grows sweet

that lets the autumn pull us walking

until hand in hand?

Wind song

Warm wind song.

Monochromatic Blues

Monochromatic Blues

before she leaves she climbs a table

when she sat to type

a two-week message

sentences clattered like

bookshelves dominoed upon the marble

fingers shook and thoughts

garbled

(high away the planets do their sympathetic

turn on browning maps)

earlier

she went up

to a study table tucked in stacks

of ruddy-barked spines

the impulse too strong

to perch upon the table edge

and rise, the ridges of octavo rows

dappled by quarto doves

as along cathedral spires

or flower of forest top

in florescent leaves of sun

an armada

broadsides shuttered

coming finally to port

ovation of order

silent nods feathered in dust

each as if

to say

we cannot all

be opened now

however much we must.

the sinking of high summer. the band plays on upon the deck.

the autumn turn of air

the trees turn off their leaves

the nights come sooner

the fog of our breath disappearing into sky

the trees turn off their leaves

and drop, the sun we shall not try

to catch, the shoulder of the earth

adorned in orange

this is a flag, and our motto

the seasons change, why

grasp at sorrow of earth we have

a sphere of curve, of lights, of blackness

and the sweep of universe in points of

intermittent light.

Harvest Comes

Harvest Comes

I should have tuned my guitar first.

more music stuff

I can't get this Tom Waits song out of my head: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XewO1DB96To

And here's an original song of my own.

the french novels in his formative years

text upper lip

where the metaphor sits

mustachios

are fine

wax them, curl them

spin and twirl them

keep them clipped.

6am is realistic

the dawning

alchemist

our bodies

to gold, to gold

the blaze of the sun is that

it knows no touch

the settle of the scalpel light

cold life edge

dissecting

stippled intersecting

of leaf-work laid down

on the early pavement you said

the air is growing cool

though the day comes

comes

to gold

beat thin