Autumn Journal
It has been unusually warm.
The thigh rubbing music
of insectivore prophets
has continued deep into October.
I write in my journal:
now I can shed the flesh
of my animal soul.
Later I draw a doodle
of a hanging man.
In the park
an old woman in a brown coat.
Her hair is sparse.
When she speaks
twigs rattle in her mouth.
She asks
“Have you seen my pretty father?”
What she said to me
(the sound of it),
beats against my breast
like the blows of a child's fist.
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