behind the hen pecked red paint on the barn door with the squeal; that rests,
not right upon the rail -
but wails and groans whenever opened
in September
when the finch are wheezing in the crystalline
solitude of early morn. and wet eyes parch the dew lips of autumn
with the pale dawn
and a ruby medallion. stuck to the horizon -
like a haunted man made of red haunting.

it jogs the memory;
to tip over the lamp
and just miss it. for no lack of Wanting.
your hands outstretched to a disaster...
and the Light

in your Hands.

without
fail.