Thanksgiving

There is still an irritant — the itch
inside the pearl, the child
hiding in the pile of leaves.
Our trouble goes backwards,
beyond dark and leafless
lawns, shifts wordlessly
like two big sets of wings
where crows attempt the same perch: a city lamp
grown star-bound for my leaving
and my dizziness.
Then the old school turns to stone
as I pass, occasionally knuckled, in parts
erased. It convenes dark arches
and the larger-now-than-ever trees
are navy, the doors
miniature with age. So wanting
puts a finger near me,
like something of weight
coming to rest in the grass — an apple
lopsided with a dash of light.

Night, my love, all breath
looks the same.
And the walkers are kind.
behind suspicions, sheepish
behind their dogs.
So to how much shadow
can a grown mind be thrown
before,
despite the gauzy veils
of formal education
or a feeling
like a boulder’s eye
exposed in an old creek bed,
one sees some easiness in the stars
and lifts a hand as if to peel
further back the loamy dark
like fruit, with gratitude.

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