Just think of all the things in this
life there aren't words for—
the smell of brewed coffee
being different from its bitter taste
or the lonesome color of every
wet maple leaf mixed together
after being compressed beneath
the eager feet of trick-or-treaters
and pulped by grudging commuters
two weeks or so into November
when you can hear them start to
mutter back and forth on the platform
so much for a good long autumn
because they can't find it
in their stony hearts to say
here comes another hard winter.
