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A plane tree, leaves green as if polished, the reddened tips of fruit trees, a stand of cypress, and through the blackened green, a yellow field, slant of roof. Nearer, the castle gate, pale brick flecked with stone like cream with nutmeg or cinnamon, and climbing, vermilion of roses. As swallows shriek and dive, their shadows loop to mark the wall, then disappear.
Copyright © 2011 by Honor Moore. Used with permission of the author.
She wore them with silk and black sheers, Her winter legs twin moons under lace– New shoes. handmade, gleaming, polished As a lake at twilight or a new mirror: Fashioned for men, but cut for a woman. He wanted her, he said, wearing those shoes. Dreaming as they measure her shoeless, A cobbler in Florence, his tape shearing Her foot, no question a woman Requires such shoes.
all that autumn you step from the train as if something were burning something is burning running across the green grass bare feet that day death was only what we lose in fall comes back in spring something is burning from the train you climb smoke between the skyscrapers Paris was so beautiful, the sky— all that autumn then tears Why do we do this again? she turns to you in the kitchen she puts her arms around you she is wearing those red shoes
The great poet came to me in a dream, walking toward me in a house
drenched with August light. It was late afternoon and he was old,
past a hundred, but virile, fit, leonine. I loved that my seducer
had lived more than a century and a quarter. What difference