Kate Potter

 

October

the peal of sky mirrors
the mute white outline
of where she fell,
memory pinned by
memory
hard on the arid
sum of stones.
she bestows upon me
a clandestine silence
that grows from the
insolence of incidence
where the secrets
of her fall
bend back in
my step
composing
a shape
that mouths
the language of
leaves bleeding
mortal incarnadine,
for they know
how to fall through the
fossil of space
that breathes
a bone of light
between them
and the naked
sprawl of ground.