At Dusk

Quiet ticks the clock
that ticks to the quiet
of my pulse.
My head is busy,
my heart sits
still in a room
of trash cans filled
with crumpled notes,
the words I wished
I could say to you.

Quiet the dusk
as winter leaves,
and all the leaves
start peeping
from their twigs;
and I am busy
with all the work
and words of life
that bear me away
from the grass
of last summer.

First published in The Penwood Review Volume 30, Number 1, Spring, 2026.