Hundreds of yesterdays erupt like starlings
from the papered heads of trees.
Pumpkin flesh scent on fingertips:
another happy hour come and gone,
flashing lips that meet and fold,
eyes like inverted tusks.
So I seep over the tile like wine
combed to froth by headstone teeth.
They all have hidden hearts
that swim in the lacking pool.
They all clench you close
& breathe your air,
trying to dig up the root
for their private pestles.
No - no! Never that.
I walk the night wood,
where hundreds of yesterdays
roost out of touch.