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
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