I had to sweat you out like a fever,
glistening on a pale yellow bed sheet,
with my back arched to the sky.
Glistening like an empty field of
clotted clay scraped into neat rows of violent red.
Glistening like the steaming earth
under night-time dew and
of the moon's sweet palm
pressed against my forehead
telling me to hush.
Autumn is on her way
with her mists and
her grace --
letting me dissolve into her arms
with a heart prepared for winter.
Keeping conscious and carefully placing,
I take bed-head, squinted eyes, and a red nose
to the kitchen window.
The steam from my breath leaves
me unsure of the light
that crawls across this town.
I wash my black feet before I sleep,
and each night
I wait for the day.