Pumpkin

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