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The autumn wind taps and stops,
muffled by hands that open, stay open
and the leaves whisper back, Chiaroscuro
all the while steel bench thinking
maybe it’s never gonna slow down.
Compared to a stream, winter’s enormous.
In spring the ladle drips with milk,
Big Dipper sinking into desert horizon.
Here in fall town they wield coffee.
Yes, yes, an ever-raging war against sleep.
Their chimneys forgive them,
of course, just as the baby’s throat
clogged with steam and mush learns
to swallow, gulping the leaves know
the closest thing to fire is an ash-
covered brow, and the closest thing to a match
is a human being with another human being
one of them holding a knife, about to pare
the other into nakedness. Sleek, the initialed bark
peeling off a tree. Never get a tattoo,
or lay your head in the warm feminine grass,
every lap is another possession,
when things mean nothing, and every mistake
is another kiss earned, we will take off our hats
to the wind, and with bared heads, dance
holding each other as far as possible, our teeth, our tongues
are knives. It is nighttime, and we whisper, Chiaroscuro,
clasping the windows of hands shut warm around each other’s.