Perishing Deep

What I miss most is sky

shining pink sky

the conifers laced with pink

hard to say who I miss —

everyone, many or most

dead, perishing deep

red low in the sky

pink dying to gray

Thoreau says decayed

wood is not old

but has just begun

to be what it is

gray soft & velvety

as a seal’s hide

gold mango lemon

gray puffs & streaks

this is only November

the sun not

blocked by a building

lasts & lasts

not like the show

earlier & higher in the sky

all flare & shutter

conchoidal: a kind of

mineral fracture, smooth,

rounded, like a scallop shell

sky lingers, doesn’t want

to go, doesn’t want

night to come

draws night like a wrapper

to sleep inside.