The list

10.22.12

The short day.
The headache,
the trembling muscle,
the tickle at the back of the throat.
The old blond dog scrabbling
at the deck.  The struggle to stand.
The darkest, wettest leaves
slicked paper-thin to the ground
on the darkest, coldest night
yet.  The year is fast.
The woodsmoke swirls
down the road.
The best crop rots in the field.
The good kiss feels bad.
The dreams linger,
the dreams haunt.
The dreams scurry their nervous truths
through the long night.
Through the short day.
Far out in the woods
on another long walk I'm too tired to take.
I don't want to sleep.
I don't want to go home.  
The geese call at night
and the dark becomes three-dimensional.
In the eye of the storm,
in bed, where the terrible
deserts of lost mother and body
knock together like blinds in the wind,
but no wind.  The room is closed.
I cannot stay here.