Autumn is a Greek sea,
A summation of wet leaves,
Gathered wicks of sunset,
A hypocaust of warm water,
That lies beneath our feet,
Incense from the Sea of Crete,
Risen to the airy suggestive.

Autumn is a word in the mind, fallen leaf-like to the mouth,
How like the orange rind, our ancient past is shriveled under pillars.

yellow sky
the winter grass
deepens

Envy
how I hate it
It makes me want to **** a man for
dreaming, for asking me to dream.
What use is it, what use have you
in dreaming, in presuming
that I am not in my very essence
capable only of glimpsing the edges
the light-limned outline of the door
leading forward
and falling back again.

The bar of soap
smooth and curved as old driftwood
it is familiar to me.
Precious to me.
All of its shape and all of its use
is my own.
And with each use
it lessens and grows
in my heart.
When it is gone
I will open a drawer
and a new bar will sit
where it sits
and eventually I will forget
I ever loved it
and the whole thing will begin again.

I wobble, sail, simmer under the sun and swing in the park
watching human flowers of the earth bloom alongside tender grass