we write the sky
with worthless words

ease erased
by the wings of birds

dead leaves crack
beneath my tread

color dusting
orange gold and red

tonight the rind
of the moon

still shines
and the stars

are also playing
their parts

so do not stand there
and wring your hands

or pound your chest
or howl

at the night

feel
what surrounds you

find
your significant place

in the depth
of things

beauty is built
with the details

that rest all
around you

these last leaves
fall like coins

from a hole
in god’s pocket

this morning
the sun stood

through the mists
of the city

life vibrates
with colors

with roots
that touch

and tap


we skim the surface we quickly move on we miss the point


what is so unrecognizable
about happiness?

what is so impossible
about love?

these delicate bones               these smooth stones
of morning                              of last light

wait wet                                   vesper edged
in the grass fragile                 and meshed

a framework                           cooling and
quick brittled                          tipping

to break                                    into the soft
if not handled                         shrapnel

with care                                 of stars

the moon is a cloud




some                                     some
are rising                              are complex
and familiar                        concrete grey
white tipping                      with a heat and heaviness
off the top                            a dizzying effect
darkening briefly               that spits light and sound
to pour specificity              in an ever shifting distance





in the pale blue sky

off the cliffs
of enoshima

three hawks hunt
in circles

their shadows
shiver the pine trees

hundreds
of dragonflies

ebb
and flow

as autumn palliates
its colors

with necessary care
a literacy

of leaves weaving
above

and beyond
perfect the palette

of changing light
last night

as the sky darkened
before the rain

before the world
fell silent

my mother
has moved

from october
to november

to the same rooms
the same furniture

and the same framed photos
to the same plates

and glasses
the same clipped light

and the same taunting shadows

my mother
has moved

from october to november
where now

she sits waiting
to move closer

to december