Redshift

Morning. The neighbor’s tree looms
above the open porch deck, sun

shining its leaves like music
through a bell, singing gold
into its mouth, arcing low, until red
                                        dusk approaches, restless,

relentless, whittling October into almost nothing, swallowing
everything—apartment,
porch, and of course

the tree, resembling, more and more, a three-story
heart, pumping a few last riplets
of fire through its chambers.

As the last, low embers of cigarette ash tumble
skyward, perched, alone, a thought overcomes me,
                                                                                        Time

is the distance between a thing
and itself.           And the music grows
                                                softer
                                  softer, still.

Read more from Issue No. 8 or share on Twitter.