jemwords
  • rhymes
  • reviews
  • remarks
  • bio
  • events
  • contact
  • @
    • instagram
    • facebook
This Fall

Sunday, and six feet above us
whirl prayers
to a tatter in ceiling-fanned air

while this book of days
in our laps falls
open and apart, our cross

country atlas consulted
to scraps, whose lines we learn
by rote; past windows

leaves peeling
with the curl and burn
of this calendar year

tear away
in their various colors, like cars.
They go like days, and I savor

His desertings
like aftertaste. O scrapbook
His patterns of departure, pray

to a dial tone sky.
My weathervane, turn
to remain. Only
 
I who now take
this wilder weather for atlas,
now take November’s advice

to undress: to walk out
into ardor, arms
in Y, the first yes
—​
​                                                                                               
to every element:
stripped to my brown,
umbrellaless.
​



http://www.stsebastianreview.com/SSR_Vol3_Iss2.pdf
  • rhymes
  • reviews
  • remarks
  • bio
  • events
  • contact
  • @
    • instagram
    • facebook