Jack
By Jonathan Bennett
Leaves fall and blow around the Jack I've lit
At the top of the drive upon this hill
In hopes of warding away anyone
Familiar who is out there wandering
In the growing—for months more growing—night
From coming up, knocking upon the door,
Slipping through the screen-holes with the chill wind
To slip into bed or creep down the stairs:
A presence reminding what was not said.
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