The sore trees cast their leaves
too early. Each twig pinching
shut like a jabbed clam.
Soon there will be a hot gauze of snow

How quickly we’re skimming through time,
leaving behind us
a trail of muffin crumbs
and wet towels and hotel soaps
like white stones in the forest.
But something’s eroded them:
we can’t trace them back
to that meadow where we began so eagerly
with the berry-filled cups, and the parents
who had not yet abandoned us
to take their chances in the ground.

I do not do well without my chattel.
I do not do well without doing what I will with my chattel.
My chattel my bodies my buildings my land.

 From the sky to the heavens’ heavens                                
 From the heavens’ heavens to the darkness on high                
     From the darkness on high to the upper dwelling       

I will go rent a U-Haul, and move to Hackensack,
And a cheap condo buy there, the driveway freshly tarred,
Hard by the Jersey turnpike, a swingset in the back,

I knew a girl who also had a ghost
living in her mouth-what we called dumb

and meant the sound of all her clicking rings,

Claude, be still, light
is what you're seeing now:
the moon contained in dusk,

“He picked up
a bee!”
is what

I set out a bowl
for the pepper birds.
“Pepper birds,”

I get on
the racket bus,
and see one empty seat