View From A Fall Window
The paper is dry and white. Between the lines
My pencil scratches and fills it. Its pine scent
Gives me trees and wind and a sea
Framed by both. A figure in the distance crouches
And becomes part of what I see.
Is it I that breaks the frame? Act on nothing, the mind
A cadaver. The wind and weather are
newsprint, gridded grinning numbers. Seventeen
stone six, withering in each old wave
passing over the shore. Push them with my hand
and smear the words.
Instead feel them
as the wind stiffens and reddens the ...