winter

already the bright days
dim to plum by four
sky—what have I done to so tire
the long muscles of your face
the darkness cloys at my hem
following me to sleep
under thick down

from this vantage
I can feel the globe
swiveling, grandiose as that may seem
sun straining south
dipping farther
into the ocean’s endless water

I take the scent that rises
from dead leaves underfoot
tuck it deep into my lungs
a spectacular ruin of summer’s excess

my skin itches under wool
bark filling in around scars
eyes layering thick pith

this may be how my heart loves
burnishing to a dark red
tragic in its optimism
holding close the last fruit
a persimmon among frozen branches