October is a Fine and Dangerous Season in America

This morning’s fog is ghoulish and a procession

of austere goats eat the heart

of the park across the street from my apartment.

It’s a work-trade with some farm

just out of the city. I say howdy to the man running

the operation, his body molded

in the sinking lawn chair that holds

his body as he drinks

his thermos like a man who believes in coffee.

I hear waterthrush,

their throats warbling from the ribs

of a pink kite buried

in the unearthed roots of a tree

hanging out

over the edges of Scull Creek.

A squirrel darts.

Overcoming her own body,

she carries the whole of an apple

the sole of a boot.

The moon is a Maglite

fooled into hunting snipe

and houses line rows of the city-

grid like a train

run off-track—all tremble

and steam, tremble

and steam. The chimney stacks

have set to flight what,

for a little warmth,

our lives set on fire.