My Little Golden Book of Phobias

It's a day a melancholy day with silky warm air leaves and rot and pumpkins already falling in on themselves the wild buzzing always in my head it's tinnitus it's ghosts it's Thanksgiving when my brother couldn't wouldn't survive another year day minute breathing so he. stopped. breathing. all by himself I'm in the shed under the beeches in Pennsylvania their luminous bark not enough light for him to stay awhile longer I'm sitting with him the rakes and empty paint cans his witness to the rope that finally didn't let him down let him down too late every year he takes a place at the table where the empty plate sits he's the end of each sentence he's the spaces between the words he's the music we no longer can hear.