By Toby Dossett
A bell-clear Sunday, elbows lodged strut firm
On the top bar of a gate, inspecting livestock.
Elms gold and half-leafed
Early autumn morning, hesitated
Rain-flirt leaves, guttering
Snub and clot of the last brown cones
When speaking of birches,
The white of their bark
As cool and suffused as a satin dress
Head on hip and hand on heel
I took the path to settle myself
November prospects
Matter in its planetary stand-off,
Dulled dark argent, roundly wrapped
And pigeon-collared in the drifting light,
Aporia, reticence, deleterious thoughts
Wielded thin as wind
A passing year, wily dovetailing
The way swans coax you into deep water
There was never a moment
When I had it out with myself or with another,
The loss occurred offstage
And yet I cannot disavow words like
Host, or prayer or gratitude
They have an undying tremor and draw
Like well water far down
A cold clutch, a whole nestful
All but hidden
In the starting autumn leaf mould
And I knew
By the mattress and the stillness of them, rotten
Making death sweat of the morning dew
That didn’t so much shine their shell
As damp them
I was on my hands and knees down there in the wet
Breath beaten and rapt in resquiescat
Featured Image: Toby Dossett