All Of Autumn

These scattered prairie clouds—
Such blush! Oh, the pink
Brightening of autumn, drought-
Dusted leaves muddy with September

Rain. Do you remember the rain?
It pours sometimes, doesn’t it—
Always in the past. Always in
Some brighter moment which is

Not now—I’ve heard you grumble!
Look. The greening pastures
Engorged with sweetness. Look.
The final blue moon—that is, until

The next blue moon. Or the super moon.
Distractions to occupy an evening.
Look! The leaping brook was a trickle
But now it leaps once more, decorated

With opalescent minnows and goldenrod
Pollen. Where does it go, oxbowed
Narration, those long-winding stories
We all adore. And when, reflecting,

We see our own faces in the pink-
Clouded water, we recite: “Yes! I
Remember that day. I do! Five years
Ago like yesterday—but I can’t precisely

Recall what we said, or what she was
Wearing. If I could go back I’d breathe so
Deeply, inhaling all of autumn, never
Displacing a cinnamon fleck of her hazel eyes.”

Hugging Tree

Hold this tree for me, I’ll be right
Back—Hampstead Heath Sunday
Oaked, fruited with notes of kite
And dock, body of hand-smoothed

Bark and a crisp, mossy finish. So
Many hands have worn this living
Wood, so many lingering fingers
Grasping the limbs and swinging

Swaying, leaving the limbs love-
Slick. The girl doesn’t want to
Climb the tree until she does, then
She never wants to come down.

Oh, hold her by the hips English
Oak, ancient girth, mineralizing
Millenia. Hold her, breathing your
Breadth, her cheek pressed flush

Against you. Held by a tree. You’ve
Heard of tree huggers, but never
Hugging trees? Well wake, up
In the branches where blue-feathered

Birds perch; where, in the distance
Men are disassembling the Ferris
Wheel into cumbersome parts, only
To be rebuilt, restored, rejuvenated,

Where the carnival never ends
But is ever-blown through the treetops
Of finger-tipped oaks—that is if
You’re inclined to climb, or look up,

The rattling, black choke of London
Dissolving as it does in New York,
Peoria, within your own central park,
The swaying skies filled with climbers.

Trail Of Feathers

I’ve been walking a trail of feathers
For days along the black, nettled canal

Rich with blue fishes, flashing damsel
Flies, umbelliferous elder surrendering

Rhubarb stalks to the flat feet of swans.
How long have I been walking? Not far,

Just as long as I can recall. Everyone knows
Our memory is the most unreliable

Witness of all—Blue fishes in rise forms,
Waking, breaking the surface to reveal mottled

Green backs. How long have I breathed
The lacy air, creamed with thick perfumes?

Feathers fall from a gray cloudless sky,
Adorning the path until a girl collects them,

Peacocking a plain post. She knows how to walk
Too, how to breathe, allowing herself to be filled

With space, noting the green fishes of the canal,
The blood red swans, hopping yellow toads flung

Joyfully across the path, and her blue-haired dog
Bounding, framed against an iridescent lemon sky.

I Hung The Moon On A Nail

I hung the moon on a nail
In my kitchen, a blank space
Of sky or wall or whatever
You believe the horizon to be—

Most people believe it’s something.
I believed there was a nail there
And the painting concurred, strung
Soon and perfectly too high,

Much like the moon often is.
My algorithm insists I love Clair
De Lune, and I agree—Debussy’s
Sighing notes sleepwalking

Through the bluetooth speakers
You know the ones I mean,
The familiar sound the moon makes
As it rises through the window,

Over the rooftops, beyond the gauze
Of clouds before settling, on a wire,
On a nail, in a kitchen, dripping
Eternity against eggshell emptiness.

When You Love Someone You Make Them Biscuits

When you love someone
You make them biscuits,
Flour flung everywhere
In this eager expression of

Affection, kneading the salted
Dough without word or thought
And greasing the pan with great
Circular swoops, holding the

Stick of butter as a child
Grasps a crayon, eyes relaxed,
Setting out cold marmalade
And jams as the biscuits bake

Golden soft, and calling gently as
The warmth wafts up the steps:
“I’ve made you biscuits, dear one,
And put the kettle on for tea.”