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I see the garden far away in itself reflected in the polished spade.

Finger tracing the terrain, you hold me through autumn’s loss of color.

Show me your darkness, your nothing-to-see and everything to touch.

I eat what’s in front of me, as all great men do. Some wouldn’t, but I do.

She does not know within a decade she will unload a slug into her mouth.

She looks in the mirror above the sink, and her image makes eye contact.

The website said November was a good time for appreciating bark.

The sun falls back and vanishes like the men in my family who’ve died.

On the swings in the park, a woman sounds an off-key minor chord.

My shadow feels my company, my stepping as he steps.

If you are hidden treasure, mine, don’t let me lose what I have gained.

A woman pushing a walker understands—gravel can be pain.

When she passes you, her name is a bright blue phrase on your tongue.

A sociopathic streak on my father’s side I try to put to good use.

I love it—watching gray light bleed out over the makeshift bed on the floor.

The poem I can’t yet write saves itself for when it can’t be avoided.

I saw a bat in a dream and then later that week I saw a real bat.

Bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, and fill all fruit with ripeness.

You smile into the phone static, the breath of your beloved.

This morning drifts of sand hissed along the shore like mist.

Bright rot laces the air, light sharpens each leaf. On our way to fallow, fire.

The slow-falling leaves contain the space of the story I’m pursuing.