Had I but
courage
equal to
desire
enough to see through
these long walks with
autumn
the
leaves freshly dead within my mouth,
clouded with those long brown to make
the scent October
grass that is cut, lying to burn
falls against my shins, the
sharp
stubble on the point
that holds its August heat in
the sandy tracks
above the draining
reservoir
small pools of blue so
startling
between the
broken clams, halved
smooth stones and
dark
mud
who knew that the dusk of 5 would
be so
different from the
summer
how long it lasts, inside my eyes
long
enough for me to
close them.