Between Breaths

The day thins out

like old wool at the elbows.

Light doesn’t fall anymore

it seeps, a pale tea

through bare black twigs.

On the pavement,

leaves lie flat and dark,

their gold washed out

to the color of cooled tea stains.

Each step over them

is a quiet crackle,

the sound of paper

being folded and folded

until it remembers nothing

of what was written on it.

The air has a new edge

metallic, unfinished

it slips under my collar,

threads its fingers

through the loose knit of my gloves,

tests the seams

where my warmth might leak.

Somewhere a gutter coughs,

spits a thin sheet of water

that freezes at the corners

not a mirror yet,

just a thought of glass

forming on the rim.

Far off, a dog barks once

and then reconsiders.

Even echoes feel shorter now,

as if sound itself

is wrapping up early

and going home.

On the tongue:

the faint smoke of someone’s chimney,

a ghost of pine,

the bitter rind of distant snow.

I exhale

and watch my breath rise,

a small white animal

climbing out of me,

hesitating,

then vanishing

the last warm thing

learning how to leave.