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A Gold Burn
A Gold Burn
Either falls are getting harder,
or I’m getting softer—or both.
The sun’s angle flat out
chokes me up and I can’t hear
geese without turning away
toward the dark of the backlit forest.
I don’t want to match the flies
above the pools. I just want
to watch them for fear they’ll go
away forever. What used to be
the heart of a yellow leaf
plastered on a wet, black rock
is something else now,
maybe a door into the kitchen
of a dead friend who waits
with a glass of whiskey
refracting the afternoon sun
in a gold burn across the tablecloth.
I’ve taken to wading rapids
too deep and clear for comfort
just to see if I can stay standing.
I spend so much time trying
to thread the eye of a midge
with tippet you’d think I was
reading Greek by the light
from a dying star.