October is a tiny town

By late afternoon, the town October is folding into itself,

Rain sputters in the gutters, chestnuts crack beneath determined cars,

Nearby, a woman calls a child in for supper,

The church bells ring at half past five, though no one is listening.

There is a yellow door. Beyond it:

the sounds of a life being casually, taken-for-grantedly lived.

A spoon against porcelain. Water running. A man's laughter.

Once, I knew my house by the way its floorboards complained,

by the smell of boiled potatoes, by the hour the kitchen went gold.

I thought knowing a place's intimate anatomy

meant I could always return to it.

October has its own geography.

Narrow streets wet wool woodsmoke traveling

from a fire I cannot spot. Along the river, unsent leaves collect

against the stone embankment, briefly resisting the mailing address.

I watch them loosen, one by one.

There must be a name for this kind of parting.

At the bakery, yesterday's bread sits beneath a fogged window.

Above it, a room with a narrow bed, a quilt smelling of lavender.

I imagine sleeping there, waking to the same bells,

the same rain, the same yellow door.

By evening, each widow is glowing gold, each alit by its own life.

I stand across the street from one listening

to dishes being cleared, a child whining, someone calling from upstairs.

All the small evidence of people belonging to one another.

I have walked a dusty road of Augusts and Julys to find this place.

I try to bring myself to knock.