Pumpkin

In the middle of November smashed on the rocks At the edge of the island A bright thing caught my eye, it was a pumpkin half I walked to the bookstore in a rain that silently filled the air All the lights were off or dim and there was nothing to do But walk to town and back In every ordinary moment looking at trash on the ground By the bulldozers in the dusk I forget myself And see universes forming Pulled back out from a dream of rolling landscapes I face the moment Looking at garbage pretending the wind speaks Finding meaning in songs, but the wind through the graves is just wind Crawling over the wet rocks with dark sand in my shoes To where the orange pumpkin I found cracked open in the waves Its emptiness loose