a journal of fantastical poetry

The Wearing Season

by Sonya Taaffe

You know as well as I the weight of autumn,
an old coat with a stranger's torn threads in the seams,
its inside pocket tucked with a photograph
of our faces, as wet and wavering as ghosts.
Shrug it off, it settles like damp leaves,
spider-beaded in a shivering dawn,
its smell the blank of three o'clock desk-light
and boiled-out tea, string sticking to the mug.
We smother in it, breathing memory,
a rising damp of time.
Or stand in shirtsleeves, cold as winter trees,
our shadows staring in the thin bright sun.

January 25th, 2013

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