from November:

Taste how it shines
the day as it is leaving
the gray light
the cold, sharp as a knife
sweet clinging dust-and-ashes tang of woodsmoke
susurrations of the dead
leaves on the pavement.
Even here the seasons must change.
I dream an anticipatory dream of snow and
cities spun of icy wind and glittering lights,
but this evening:
the patio and the lawn are flooded with yellow
(it's only five o' clock),
there is cigarette smoke on
a bitter breeze that lifts the leaves.
See how the trees are framed against the sky, see how the grass is wet and dark, see how the pale stars fade in
silently.
Do you see?
The pale stars dance on the void, dance silently on the face of the void.