There’s a raw blue haze
in the branches, cries
of the shrunken world blow through.
It’s dark early, I
see her hands
button my coat at the neck.
I want to be touched in this weather
but why, what do I miss?
The stars are clearer tonight,
the trees hold their stiff colorless webs
to the sky, the clouds grow
pink, leaves scrape at the walls.
Listen.
A woman sobs. I
tell myself stand here while the leaves curl and scatter.
A red moon bends its face
to my hands
and seems to answer.
First Cold
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