Just at the shore
waves concoct plans to escape
and fall in again
Just at the shore
waves concoct plans to escape
and fall in again
The wind frets
where to put things and leaves them
a few feet away
At the edge of sight
a leaf twirls—one of many
peripheries
Silence that ripens,
silence that stays green, silence
fallen and sere
Hunter-gatherers
know better what is food and
what becomes food
Everything loose
whines, rattles, or screams its name
and still sleep sneaks up
Sun never sees me
trade night and day—it knows me
only awake
Beneath a streetlamp
the last of yellow leaves wave—
a skirt of light
The wind’s fitful will,
the sun’s eternal return—
why do I want rest?
An aching silence—
every other soul asleep,
the hour at rest