October 7, 2016

Bill Rector


Last night I kept pulling
gloves from the pockets of my coat.

O abyss of my winter coat’s pockets!

As they fell
the gloves turned into leaves,
curled palms of maples,
stubby fingers from oaks,
gray fists of ash.

I woke up.
I thought of you.

But then I always do.

I considered the hours to come,
the first thing to be done,
and the next.

All day my hands were cold.

from Rattle #52, Summer 2016


Bill Rector: “My poems are asymptotic curves that approach, but never reach, what I wish to say. But sometimes the approach is close enough for the meaning to be glimpsed. ‘Autumn’ was written after the death of my daughter.”