Tag Archives: fall

Turnip

I am out of words, as if I kept them
in an empty jam jar, long since scooped clean,
any hint of former inhabitants
soaped and rinsed away and set out to dry
by the kitchen window. And I don’t know
where to buy more, the chain grocery store
around the corner only stocking so
many as to serve their dull purposes:
pound, off, sale, fresh, frozen, produce, dairy.
It serves me right, thinking I could buy my words,
or steal them from the world that gives me breath.
Better if I grow them on my own, now,
large like a pumpkin, many like ears of
corn, harder than a round, ripened turnip.

gold leaf, red fox

Knightsbridge: a baby is shrieking I think

it’s been left in a dumpster somewhere dumped

on soft/ bottom/ tin uneven things pillow its skull

the leaves come down in Fall and this street is where gold leaf must have been named.

speckled and fragmented pushed hard into the pavement they die hard. a red bus comes. a red bus always comes.

the leaves are metal dust and I love them.

the baby is not a baby but a fox, also red, sleepless on uneven gait, soft tail bottom.

Ode to Candy Corn

rounded wax wedges, waning; a tawny
base that tapers towards a soft point
white like tundra, in taste and texture,
bleeding out from burning copper ribs
hardly mellow hardened creme
of candle crops to harvest fat
free treats, a sign of times once pagan-
pluralistic-primal-precocious-pre-
human, uncivilized, re-captured,
re-claimed, costume the dead alive
and turn the season, turn to shovel
handfuls into mouths full of rotting
teeth a special offer, a limited time only
exciting when available but hardly
missed in memories of stomaches
turned to sick, in children as in men
but indulging in each dish we find it
harder to resist the solstice sweets
and let ourselves get lost inside
that sadistic sugar maize