September 10, 2014

Petrichor, serein, chinook…too there must be a word for the sun’s bright falling on Fall’s rot, for the crystalline light undimmed by the smell of bloating berries and musty nests, the new dead not sleeping, the unpreserved, the beautiful falsity where every direction is northerly and the birds arrow away overhead into a mocking extra dimension I can’t crack, my retort dying on the tip of my tongue.