your voice new as piano keys-black white and aching-
beginning its gracious news. or in a pine barrened to a
turn blankly to fall. there is nothing to offer the
but the smell of dead leaves.
so they begin their turn
tip of the nose
phenomenon. at the edge
of the tongue we all speak greatly. last
in the backyard
falling under the still great moon, in yellowgold memory
i saw what's full and winter storming through,
anomalous morning thunder
in the palm of its hand. how
unusually true, too,
in the 30 or so below, the mouth still
spoke of you.