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.

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