Do you know, even if it is trying to make me kill myself with vitamin D deficiency, I love this time of year. I take what I get. I wanna wear my cutoffs one last time before it gets cold. I was looking through old posts in this blog and I think you could play a drinking game in which you take a shot for every instance wherein I mention cutoffs, running alone, doing laundry, being 26, or where I used a run-on sentence. And at the end you die. This poem keeps coming to me in the early fall morning when I'm getting ready, making coffee in the kitchen. The day begins with what we've left behind.
...this hunter’s hour—a parity of coolness
and hand, dream and ear. Coyote, I return
to my only true subject in light
of desert autumn; no amount of road or house
or urban sprawling drives me out. Though long-winged
memory pursues me: the chick responds to the shadow
of a hawk even before it’s out of the shell. And in my bed
the fever’s passing made me wonder if daily a secret combustible
need makes a man quieter, more polite, more
carefully correct, lest he flame—
We are what eats us. Coyote.
The dog-star’s fading, and the only woman-star
I can name is a burning princess once
fed to the jaws of a serpent.
A story before you sleep. From that dark cave
poked in the mountain the city is only haze, glint.
The day begins with what
we’ve left behind. Oh, slowly, I get to my eyes,
face, mouth, shirt, stunned kitchen.
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