the eyes set immediate to
some subtle architect's shapeless masterpiece
under the cotton plumes
that were wearing down the sky.

debris, muttered the wilderness
left their shells of washing machines
to be the ruins of our empire.

Autumn sends the flocks out overhead
molding the waves of the air
throwing aged paper of leaves

rippling of the ivy lantern's flame
in a more solemn movement, onto the trees
as they turn their shoulders away.

I have built this tower of singed timber
to spend your days watching above,
in weathered paint we have covered you;

and I have sculpted you the mountains
to wander in a nocturne

leaves spiral around us like a benediction
before colliding into our hands

This is how it always begins: our footsteps trounce the dry paper of fallen leaves and then

the silence. I want to pin you against the foliage, paw at the curves of your sweater and inhale your hair, burned through by the sun. You'd taste like bonfires and hayrides and warm, like cider. The world now, in the throes of harvest and end times, seems inundated with last-stand passion. Fruits grow desperately ripe, leaves desperately bright, and I

desperately wanting. You say, "Penny for your thoughts?" or something equally nonchalant and I laugh quietly, ashamed. I blush and shake my head, the last wisps of desire floating

away. Eventually you'll come around to telling me about him. How far you've come this year, what plans you've made for the next, what the holiday season will bring, who's doing what with their lives. I'll insert comments of understanding and attention at the proper moments, ask scattered questions, throw in a witty observation or two. I do this without thinking because

my thoughts are somewhere else. Because

you are who I've always wanted, who I've always wanted to be and be with, the creature against whom all others are measured, the object of my most wanton passion and if it would make the slightest difference,

I would call you by your true name. But, while I'm drunk with desire and need, shuffling along in the gold and crimson of a raging autumn afternoon, you turn to me like you always do and say, "We should really do this more often. Why do we only ever get together in the fall?" And I

blush and shrug in disbelief, wondering what strength it would take to contain a desire this voracious in more seasons than one.

I remember she told me she felt naked
on that hospital bed
with that gown that left little to the imagination.
She told me she felt naked, but that she didn't care,
it wasn't that the nightmare she was living
it wasn't shame what she was suffering
it was intrusion.

Not long after naked beds and impotent doctors
did she lose the ability to speak and remember.
Soon after that, the ability to swallow her food
to scream in pain
to breathe
to contract her heart.

It wasn't a sunny morning,
it was just a morning, simple and certain,
when we stood around paying tribute to her
loosely-gripped life.
I was easily tamed by the social obligation of sorrow
but my insides were swelling with joy
my breaths widened with relief
my guilt growing plump,
obscenely fed by the contradiction.

Norah, you're naked and I'm sorry
I have no tears to cover you up with
But here's my sleeping well and the silent house
here's a happy Sunday afternoon and the long-absent laughter
here's your buried pain and your well-kept memory
here's your letter from Cairo and your fear of cats
this is what I can give you, now that you're gone
this, and you in a desert far away,
dreaming forever of forests and rains and places to come

Just as she was having
her almost-last goodbye
leaves spiralled around us
like a benediction
like a tired soul's last will of glory

Or maybe,
Norah,
you're not naked anymore

like a coincidence too benevolent to dispel.