The Finality of a Poem
--Michael Anania 
All day, that  
is forever, 
they fall, leaves,  
pine needles, 
as blindly as  
hours into hours 
and the chill 
rain—what else  
do you expect 
of October?—
spilling from one 
roof to another,  
like words from 
lips to lips, your  
long incertain 
say in all of this  
unsure of where 
the camera is
and how the light 
is placed and what  
it is that’s ending.

No comments: