Summer has fewer verbs than the fall, or the moon 
 more loquacious on these cool nights is its adjective for snow. 
 Either way, when the sky traces its epiphany at dusk,
 nudges the last streak of daylight into its corner,
 there'll be nine tenths of a thaw - 
 Ground hard truth frozen in a decanter by the sill,  
 a 50/50 split, 
 November's brief halcyon, then drift - then squall. 
 Neon between stares, or in your eyes, 
 more space than coherence.

 Move your winter into mine.  
 The tongue of the season flicks in the fumarole  
 of dandelion, teacup and rose.
 Yesterday's gardens are the affairs of angels, 
 the fin de siècle of courtship dissolved in a flake. 

 In this way a thousand lovers, like trees, 
 drop their limbs, confuse a season's denouement for sentiment. 
 Outside our door, 
 a caddisfly estranged on the urn of a thermos;
 forelimbs mimicking laurels,
 the amber chirr of empty streets,
 the memory of sulphur.