But it could not be brought to see what it
could be brought. And the leaves are
away again, teamed. A parent at the
last and a parent in the middle. And
as stones I thought it right.
Two plates, and on the other side all the
forest pieces. The clock says stay.
The books lower the earth, and in gardens
flat stones spin. The volume was of waiting.
Today is today, until the preposition taken up.
Next to the tree sways.
The sky in pieces the leaves part the
leaves piece together. To and from a hand
given all directions. The bark comes from
below. Takes from the books of the moves under
the sky. Speaker holds up the talks held last.
Motors the dust and the yellow syllables.
A slant on which was never here or
Clark Coolidge, “The Country Autumns” from Own Face. Copyright © 2000 by Clark Coolidge. Reprinted by permission of Green Integer.
Source: Own Face
(Green Integer, 2000)