Thursday, November 23, 2017

Your Slow Deliberate Dilations

Oh, the range of glow and volume of you –
cold November afternoon! – forgive me for not
having sooner caught your daily comings-on and -in –

for not having been sufficiently attentive to your slow
deliberate dilations toward assuming a protracted role
in a Chekhovian-sly play: seductively ambiguous. If your

winds had limbs they’d be askew, each with its own soft
arresting hue – your portion of the fund of autumn’s
waning alchemy. From my vision’s balcony I see

an opalescent sun: its valiant fading glimmer stuns a little –
bits of white gold prick the eye – then mesmerizingly
diffuse into a dreamish pinkish-grayish-gauzy-brightness,

subtly wry and privately enlivening – still faintly fresh with
its begetting sun, not yet sucked into, under the penumbral
cold indifference of a winter still to come – I will leave

my unclear essence here, invest it in your evanescent
comprehending light so you might breathe it in before
I curl into another freezing night’s amnesia.


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