Sunday, November 10, 2013


What the crisp air whispers is maybe wise, not clever. It's, "Nothing
goes according to plan, unless the plan is going."
I found myself going into its blowing bits of brown
knowing the wiser winters I read lie to me. I lied, too, down
this yesternight's morning, with a plan to wake and plan
to go. What I woke to was, in a new day's night, shaky spans
of distant fires prickling a purple-black. Take them, back with me,
wake-walking into whispering airs and unplanned mysteries.

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