Tenth Month

Scalise back yard
I hear the oiled hinge of a new door
opening as silence. Nothing’s
happened yet
………………………. open’s
not a motion but a state,
not a movement but a wait

the bloody morning light’s
the ending moment of a wake,
a dam of light about to break
to burst upon the earth

to tell that something new’s at stake
in searing autumn colors on a hill

to tell of frigid fingers
in a chill of rhapsodic golden
yellows, orange, brown

to tell of all that coming down
by the hard breath of something blowing
coming through

all the falling
then the still

  …   a still
deleting whiteness under

Jim Culleny