From American Writing: A Magazine

OCTOBER

These edges
do not chafe.
They flake in my fist.

Even the yellow leaves
have turned to dust beneath the moon,
and like a ghost
that cannot forget,
the oak is tinged
with shadow.

What remains
but a skein of poplars,
like a scar against
the east, and smoke
unpeeling, fragrant
from burnings. I spurn
illusions.

Pools
darken the earth,
before frost
cracks and blackens.

I cover myself.

© Angela Kozol 2001