In 2005, Scott Taylor found a metal box filled with photographs in the boiler room of the house he and his family had just moved into. Some were color photographs from the 70s, others were much, much older. There was no way to tell how they ended up there, or who collected them in the first place. Ten years later, he picked out 31 of them, and wrote a poem every day that October.
12Ten birds shriek insanely as morning light slants inside what’s left of the old church. A strand of new Spanish beadshas been hung from a nail next to the back door,and the ridge above townis dignified by red cloudsand chimney smoke.
Autumn, with her slick stones and truth, has arrived at last, crooked and sickly, her cart filled with maps, weather-gods,and chances.