The End of October (poems from old notebooks, October 2009)

The end of October.
A long time since
the geese strung themselves
into high, black twists of thread
and drifted south.
I stand in autumn’s meagre green,
scrape a fingernail
through morning frost
and touch my tongue to it
as if it were
the first sharp bliss of her breast.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
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