out of the dawn a train horn breaks
the hush in October, breaks
my sleep born of my lungs
burdened in the rib cage
bellowing from the crisp autumn wind—
the sunlight and leaves are one shade,
both scattered on my lawn,
ready for the ruddy feet of schoolchildren
whose hair jumps through the wind,
tangling in bare branches—their laughter
and the rustle of the leaves
more daunting than the Kol Nidre;
breaking me more than a requiem
looming through a hollowed cathedral.
the shattered flattened sound makes
this a temple—the children and the leaves
a choir garbed in rusted robes.
the smell of brittles, the sound of beaten sidewalks,
the cantor of a Godly season—
from what keeps the kindred kindred
more than the eating of death
by teared eyes?—blusters through,
shatters window panes
as a train whistle shatters
the Autumnal prayers
from winter’s slumber.
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