Change colors until your jacket’s out at sleeves. Fold it for another town’s
seasons. The escaped almanac says October will ignite some days, weave
its mulch, come down as a torn quilt. This almanac with dates scratched
out, useful still. Ghosts just are their clothes. Certain planets, beady-eyed,
elliptical, tuck in as for second supper. Heavens their table. Do not forgive
all that I say, but choose. A setting or outer atmosphere. Some ways the
land lies please. Or it is cussed hardheadedness. We jump feet-first into
rivulets. Only a little. It hurts. When the rooster crows, alone you toss and
turn. The bag man, says the inky actor in voiceover. As if that made sense,
dawn clears the counters.