How final frozen cabbages seem
In the garden behind the station house abandoned
There is no goal of nourishment
When the eleventh month comes
It carpetbags even the stars
We bury an old dog behind the house
His bones are rolled up
In a carpet remembering when love was new
Its threads of gold busily undoing
The muddy paws across dank November
Muddy marge of the creek
Where the orange grievance of leaves curdles

A dog stops at the end of the river and turns
A sky is frittering away light and gold
It must be a different beast
How final a man eating alone    before the weird window
Heat of the noodles that come to his mouth
His entire childhood     his mother       his lover
In each gesture as he eats    alone in a window
Steaming and patience
There is a pause in a wheel
The moment before it turns against itself
To finally leave this rusting place


One thought on “Falmouth

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