Black Paintings X

This notebook has seen
many years. Many moons.
Many zip codes.
The night air of autumn
has many times yellowed
its edges, curled its corners.

I used these stenos
during the winter we lived
out in the country,
near the pond where we
rowed around our love, and
the morning fog was full
of questions;
by Christmas it had
strangled the house
and mingled with the
smoke of a chimney, once
lonely, once jealous.

These pages filled
with answers and notes
to the classes
of my new life.

For a few years,
after we’d left that house,
after you’d gone to another,
and I’d gone to the city,
these empty
lines held up
part of a
bookcase, then
and old organ,
and now
remind me of
what is real
and what is not.