roll into each padded eye
till some current, passing by,
catches and tosses them faster and
faster.
A bee holes up in a pumpkin-flower.
(Its days are numbered, too, till
frost.)
Little bugs don't know the worst:
all there is of sex and power,
nothing of seed that must be sown.
Each leaf descends, its cloth still
one
and perfect till the skeleton
turns mealy when some boot comes
down.
Fibrous clouds obscure the moon.
The tall blue sky is falling, too,
and days of loving, I, and you,
if not now, then someday soon.
Fantasies of spring are gone.
Spike-toothed winds are blowing
through.
We were dead before we knew,
will be from now on.