She’ll hold her hand out a window on a June day, snatch a chubby fistful of air, clutch it all night beneath her sheets. Out of a dream of flight she’ll emerge, vast as a yard of clover, and fall like a comforter over the neighborhood. Then she’ll shimmer like a maple in the wind. You might catch a whiff of pine-sweet air—that’s her hair—but she’ll never let you look right at her. She’ll dart in your periphery, quick as a dining room mouse. Dusk, she’ll gobble her handful of breeze, and puff upward in pieces, into the hot-pink west.
Kid, this is October,
you can make the maples blaze
just by stopping to look,
you can set your clock to the barks
of geese. Somewhere the grandfathers
who own this town lean down to iron
crisp blue shirts, their faces bathing
in steam, and blackbirds
clamor in packs,
make plans behind corn.
You know this,
you were born whistling
at crackling stars, you snap
your fingers and big turtles
slide out of rivers to answer.
You can swim one more time
in the puddle of sun
in your water glass, taste icicles
already in the white crunch
of your lunch apple. Go
to sleep. I’ll put on my silver suit
and chase the sky into the moon.