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Pin-pricks of water trickle down her skin

Segwaying follicles and frolicking

In icy sledge-tracks of the night.

 

Soggy feet look forward to

Extrapolating pesky shoes.

Coat carries hitchhikers inside

But only on its surface, and, besides

They’ll soak into the fabric, then subside.

 

And it might not rain again.

 

Tomorrow it is sunny. In Paris there is snow.

But the cycle’s sick

And there’s nothing that is

On this porous ground

On this fair, wet ground

Ever the same thing

Twice

Beyond, night.

Early love

 

Sit, in pallid sunshine

in the dusk before the dawn.

Fiery leaves play parachute

torpedo from eye-holes.

 

The pause in the sonata,

the breath before the Word,

the, “Is it over?”―“Can we clap yet?”―“Wait!―”

Infatuation. Nerves.

 

Autumn air on porous skin

hop-scotches in, a round;

a kind hand cups your cheek:

a smile,

a balmy palm,

a while―

 

It’s so delicious, isn’t it?

The cat has gone to sleep.

He’s curled up like a croissant

―there―there, dunk your head back,

breathe.

 

The blanket of warm water welcomes

you with open arms.

A safety-pin of liquid

and the buoying brush of wind.

 

Sit under this fir tree with me,

the branches warm our bones.

Long and loving covering,

but it still can’t numb the drone.

 

Hot smog of vodka

sticks in chest

and hums around your bones.