And if the sky was round
and being filled
in November, the dark month appeared
smaller, and later
a kind of gray.
My arm was out the window.
Fall bled forward.
The upper edge of the whole sun
shifted something higher.
You were there, with me in the yards,
sometimes blue
in your clothes.
We spoke of the morbid.
Sparks seemed to spread from it.
Often a spawn of frogs
the impression of which
weakened as it lasted.
We appeared
to see nature, the sky
rose and all that should be green
appeared to us in autumn.
And these plain faces existed,
passing underneath.
In red light, we acted alone.
Two prisms, one upon the other.
Little kids played soccer
by the twisted corn.
The border spread
while we were eating dinner.
The sun slid in the grooves.
New Clouds
Emily Hunt

New Clouds

Emily Hunt

Floating Wolf Quarterly Cover_wolf