Another month, I love you:
those herringbone eyes,
those winks of lace
that stutter the sky and beguile.
I was all in your palms then,
held fast and humid,
perched on a breath,
on your low-hilled lips.
But I was green then and letched,
inept to your thirty one forms of love,
adept at drinking in your thirty one dews,
giving nothing at all. And you left.
And now, now I wed November,
naked as a limb, gather the trees,
undanced, unpulsed, nonplussed
that I may not utter a summer’s name.