The month has an address.

Where the month is entered.

Sleeping bags, cups, compasses, honesty.

Breakfast pizzas. Later, garlic bread, if it lasts.

Previous Octobers, unimpressed.

A telescope pointed at the shore.

Steam against a cold window.

Empty cells. Webs left alone.

A stitched Z, and boats that get found.

A key, if you want a door.

Thirty-one costume nights.

Marks first. The run when the month is ready.

The lighthouse, where the path meets the water.

Fuel, coffee, a bell.

The Great Autumn Market lives here.

The lift wakes when the high snow is enough.

Powder, when there is powder.

Fire, chocolate, skis on the wall.

Stalls, patches, a few that matter.

Where people agree to stand back.

Leaves, rocks, dragonflies, cold water.