I put my hand out, like a fire accept yours is gentle, with that tremulous shake of fallen leaves turning slowly to the bronze of earth beyond the dunes of your shoulder saw in the unevening sky the roundness of your disapproval afternoons as lithe as cats I imagine you always have that face a prosopon, de rigueur downturned at a scrap of yellow there are foals in autumn’s colours the leavened wind has an insistent touch as soft and irrevocable as Midas steam plumes their nostrils and furs their backs in their gait, unconstrained machineries take sudden flight (as you turn, come back inside) the evening spills her horses
