Those rising gods of cloud, possum-belly
cream and white,
that roadkill brightness
(winnowed by rod & cone)
I take like tea: necessary
enactment of incarnation.
October’s not known for light—
no gold sluicing low over meadows,
stippling brooks, dappling fields
—what I noticed was no
miracle, just crepuscule
I can’t resist: dim, brief,
hammered flat from tin.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 3.
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