What if the Lord of Days is a fish with a blank eye
blinking
in cool silver?
What if the grand October fire is a dead mouse
humbled
in burnt leaves?
What if the soft fever of our bodies is a limp wind
rattling
in cupped longing?
If the heart has teeth and
smiles
in small sentences,
then love must be a veil of crumpled silk
fluttering
over hard apples.
