Nobody and no one can halt the Fall
but the prodigal sun’s slight withdrawal
leaves the geometry of plenty:
the elongated stars the oak splays on the stairs,
layers of points teeth curves, gears machined
to fit no engine, or air’s. You can star gaze for hours.
I’d eat what the leaves have to say
the scripts of bites and lace
of loss on each one, but I’ve already scavenged
the eye food, the mind find, and hinge
the next line on plane geometry:
the wide fat arrows of poplar
which point everywhichway though
an abundance of directions is none.
Mary Moore is a retired professor from Marshall University. Her work has appeared lately in Birmingham Poetry Review, Cider Press Review, Nimrod and Unsplendid. Her collection of poems, The Book of Snow, was published by Cleveland State U. Her chapbook, Eating the Light, won the 2016 Sable Books Chapbook Competition.
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