Harvest

You wake up with gritted teeth
and tell me you are biting my shoulder.
It's stress. I bite your neck and
close the curtain. You are
my almanac, I do my slow work
and keep one ear out for the
slender equinox you augur,
I worry your pages thin. Tonight
on you I improvise a season
ex tempore, neither of us knows
which hand to turn up for receiving
which hand to clench for rain.