from the ceiling
or a leaf gliding through the equinox,
I am not the first.
Mozart’s clarinet pulls one thread
from the throat: melancholy
greeting the first season.
Away from home, I circle streets.
Each turn flips a switch
as if rooms of myself are being lit.
I drive until exhaustion builds
a house where I can live,
where the sun, each day,
shows its dumb face
like a sheriff carrying out the law.
The delight is repetition:
Wolfgang is here
rummaging through the wreck;
and the soft hair you stroke
tangles in more primitive hands.