I am ankle-deep in leaves
and though the days burn bright
the fast-falling evening has a bite now:
I watch a small child pointing
with blunt fingers (yours are moon-like,
soft, nails longer and lovelier than mine)
at the desiccating leaves along the footpath,
more rubbish! she cries, more rubbish!
and I walk home
past three damp-cornered houses
in which I used to live: autumn
is soft and slow
and spacious. I think
of how I curled
away from my cold feet
hooked behind your knees,
each finger in between yours.
I still fear
that there’s a hollowness
For a moment on the freeway
the next morning,
a huge crow hovers
in the middle of my windscreen.
They too are smarter then they need to be,
and I wonder if they feel it
like I feel it, wing-dark
There’s a crack
in the skin of things,
the dry air.
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