Autumn at Peak,
Pepperell Cove
In this house of
margin
what you said, what I said
smacked holes through furious sleep—
would we scavenge the leaves
behind us? The green ending
now, letting the yellow show.
Which mistakes would trap us,
no matter how sharp this cove
of pilotless boats?
I manage the afternoon
as if I were shadow,
undoing the stun of sky
after wake and wind,
and climbing full color
to mute the methodical year.
