it’s a process

head tipped back and lens out of focus
i sip the last dregs of sunlight
from a summer fast fading,
etching her colors black-inked into tomorrow,
tracing my words into the wet cement of eternity.
my steps quicken to match the fall
of the leaves over old brick in the city’s
East end, my footfalls small
miracles of blurry substance in a brittle
dream.

but the words
just won’t flow like
they’re supposed; they start and they
stutter over roots in the sidewalk, getting lost in the
mutter of leaves and passing traffic and sometimes
when the light recalls just perfectly
the way it used to fall
through your bedroom blinds in
September’s late mornings, then
the muscles at the top of my throat
close up and in the sudden rush of air
that i swallow to
push the memories back

down into oblivion, they
vanish altogether,
leaving my shadow to
walk alone through the early October
sunset.

uninspired,

i scribble disjointed words
on scrap paper while
an unclothed winter
peers at me as if from
behind my frosted shower curtain,
indicating with her crooked finger
that i am the one
frigid and revealed.