(after Albert Cook)

All day, that
is forever,

they fall, leaves,
pine needles,

as blindly as
hours into hours

colliding,
and the chill

rain—what else
do you expect

of October?—
spilling from one

roof to another,
like words from

lips to lips, your
long incertain

say in all of this
unsure of where

the camera is
and how the light

is placed and what
it is that’s ending.