— Alexander McCoy

Morning. The neighbor’s tree looms
above the open porch deck, sun

shining its leaves like music
through a bell, singing gold
into its mouth, arcing low, until red
                                        dusk approaches, restless,

relentless, whittling October into almost nothing, swallowing
porch, and of course

the tree, resembling, more and more, a three-story
heart, pumping a few last riplets
of fire through its chambers.

As the last, low embers of cigarette ash tumble
skyward, perched, alone, a thought overcomes me,

is the distance between a thing
and itself.           And the music grows
                                  softer, still.

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