i crossed the path of a white cat,
this friday november 13th.
Am I more or less lucky now?
It's the season again when carrots come out
hugging one another tightly,
around the neck, belly, and ankles.
The crops know what's next and
they seek comfort in each other.
Similarly, leaves hurry to take
part of the collective sleep on the floor.
I find myself in the familiar pattern of sucking up
and deriving my own pleasure.
Mack Mead, a farmer, spoke last Saturday of returning home
this time of year, after working outside all day.
You swallow browns and crisps and purples,
decays, endings, mutings and fadings.
Then it's night and it's five and you've finished
because you can no longer.
You walk home. You see light.
and the world is awake and almost too much inside.
The walls are textured, colored, alive.
The smells are wet, comforting, like horses.
Pleasure is standing on the threshold between the two
and recognizing the stern outer angles
and the soft inner auras.
I put one boot inside while I keep my other out.
