Themes on an Exit

Novelty, and I’m not sure—

Yesterday I felt a casual breeze and the loneliness
of previous autumns came
rushing back. I have the sense,
or the symptom that the more I lose
in sleep the more myself
I become.
It carves around myself: I pare down
more tender, sore and supple, organic bruises
beneath my eyes cosplay
something more lovely. Winter
is coming. It’s a warning.

The climate’s attention suggests its planned
obsolescence. I read it natural
to my arrangement—longing, smallness—enough
to plenty anonymized excavating hands. With the ripening
of the season I am finding that I know better than
I believe. Yes, the search is on,
it’s pressing wound new
and old, and I push
without meaning
to. Snap back harder than expected.

In this pending space I can
be convinced by
any sign of life, their equal measure:
twitch, change, judgment,
heat, tense, solace,
pulse, speech, children.

I will mourn before the year
is over.