October Dusk

This piece appears in the Los Angeles Review of Books Quarterly Journal: Imitation, No. 23

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¤

October Dusk

Aspen leaves and blue spruce needles dissolve
in the dusk; looking through glass panes,
you suddenly see ceiling lights, a Bolivian
textile on a wall: when what’s behind becomes
what’s in front, you wince, draw circles,
and, deepening the graphite tracks on a page,
enact a noose; then a sliver of moon
in the sky’s a sickle; a twig fire crackles
at your feet; you whistle, ache, mar, step
out of a car to find bits of shattered glass
on asphalt resemble the ends of dreams;
as you flip bottles into a recycling bin,
each glass shatters: each dream collapses
into a pile of shards; as you toss the last
glass into the bin, you step out of another
transparent confine; and, as moonlight makes
a road on water, you have no word for
this moment that rides a wave stilling all waves.

¤
 
Arthur Sze is a professor emeritus at the Institute of American Indian Arts and the author of ten books of poetry, including, Sight Lines, Compass Rose, The Ginkgo Light, Quipu, and The Redshifting Web.