distant peak
a tumbleweed overtakes
the shadow of a cloud

we pick
the last blackberries
her freshly blonde hair

book chosen
      another title tips
           into the empty space

waking up all night
this room is too close
to the moon

listening
for the cat door —
autumn night

lakeside drive
   one more time around
      the radio dial

cul-de-sac
the knife-grinder rings in
summer’s end

almost dark —
a fountain
lifts the rain

silence between us
the sound
of a candle

wind-carved sand . . .
I crumble a bayberry leaf
to bring her back