He has gone to find what God there is.
Tracks and their hollows filled with stone.
It is not the lamppost but the leaves,
throwing light over muddled parks and cars.
Someone practices violin—
between us a stucco wall.
After this block, I won’t come to the end
but will stop where the key fits the lock,
the strong box: a strapped sheath of letters,
a woolen cap and whatever I didn’t ill spend.
Let us give thanks.
though promised to others,
we could not help dancing.
AUTUMN McCLINTOCK lives in Philadelphia and works at the public library. Poems of hers have recently appeared in or are forthcoming from Carolina Quarterly, The Collagist, Drunken Boat, RHINO, THRUSH, and others. Her essay, “Responsible for Death” appears in the 2013 anthology The Poet’s Sourcebook, published by Autumn House Press (no relation). She is a staff reader for Ploughshares.