a bee broke on the flower of a weed,
a tickling black heron in snow―

its moves are still a woodman's lumbering dart,
searching for firewood early.

the moon has sent us this cold touch
borrowed off a comet's ice,
sieved through the ozone,
caught & sewn by a reddening wind.
the soft-cyclic sting in my garden
shines full sickle to sing,
a crooked hymn for Fall
where the trees were tall―

and the bee accompanies the wasp
to an earthy half-grave.

evening means much less in July, exhausts too much
for any entrance to the chest
where the heart would bang to the scent
of a papery leaf in flame.

along the road lower for warmth
the sparrows are a shotgunned ghost
veering their cluster of space like atoms,
hoarding the tourist cells of the bushes,

while in the slow-teeming town of a silent grove
a wet wind hurtles a dragonfly and warps the hot charm of trees
to cold, green-lit sticks. yew leaves exit for the brook
and I never feel camouflaged―
I stroke a summer-sour throat in this appleyard air,
eyes open on the happy cold.

now the air is chill enough to love,
the night's whistling breath has come to a point like a knife
resharpened all year, since it broke in winter;

inhaling becomes weeping for such clarity.
the long-gone dweller of an entire system
of atmospherics & faith
is coming home―



(formatting doesn't come through, there are indents here & there)

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