—after Georg Trakl
Late November evening, and the wind chimes
ring their hollow, four-note hymn.
A freight train brays through town.
The crickets start their gossip in the garden,
and the ginkgo's fallen fans fade to rust.
Down the street, a dog barks wildly at the stars,
while in a puddle's mirrored surface
the scythe-like moon sits silent.
Tonight, I would like to set the maple aflame,
to watch my dim shadow dance by its light.