Autumn Takes Inventory
       

I have an extra pair of goggles, a grandfather
I've never met, a prehensile comprehension
of mirrors, two eyes that do adequately recognize

a leap year. I eat more when someone
else pays, and I have decided to build a house,
to expect warmth. I have moons

for a heart, drapes for drapes, and
too much kindness, so when your shoes
fall out of the helicopter, I'll fall

after them. Hello ghost, let's use
one another, let's be a face in the fireplace.
The Earth's atmosphere doesn't have an end-point

but becomes thinner and thinner until
it doesn't exist. I have the next afternoon,
a screaming child. I have immeasurable orchards.

A deep pool to swim in a single breath: the pressure
on my cheeks to hold my lips sealed. I have made
someone cry, and I'm sure I'll do it again.

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Copyright © 2016 Gary McDowell All rights reserved
from Mysteries in a World that Thinks There Are None
Burnside Review Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission