Patrick Foltz

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

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