These Things

Five orange leaves on the black branch
Rattle in the sky’s windy pocket.
We take our cues from the rivulets rain drops take 
Through dust on broken window glass; 

From the black conductor’s premonitions; 
From a curious dip in the weather;
The wet of blue on blue in a sea town;
From Francis’ holy beads, scattered, 

Batted under the dresser by Pumpkin,  
Who sleeps on your chest and sneezes
In your face. We take these things up like cassocks 
And duly dance them through the gray afternoon. 

© Larry Haworth