MOG

Here it is, fall, blown in to mess the map I just now drew. The streets got wet and the light’s gone grey, the shade that softens faces but sharpens lines: branch, curb, inter-sect, intro-spect? Let’s start over. The autumn fills me with myself but loses me in the woods; now that late light comes early, I know how to look, but not where. Coat & boot & this new knit hat, they’re bolder at the borders than just this summer’s skin - they keep me in, and push you out, and thank God. Let real cold shoulders renew these sleepy survival instincts.

And so, all hands tucked elsewhere, my winter guide’s again just headphones; mandolins that crescendo and conjure haybeds in snow drifts, voices that burn wet cedar like a signal, in the dark:

I am alone, out here. But I can warm myself.