Autumn
Suppose I
as so many animals
could not see color,
but more, could
no longer see you or others,
saw only the hollow you left
at the edge of the bed,
or a swirl of leaves
to describe your breasts, hips and limbs;
heard your feet as snapping twigs,
your mouth and tongue
pushing soft
loops of words
into the wind -
that would be
somewhat as it is.
For each autumn
you arrive,
a vacant,
waiting space
no matter how small,
enough for me to crawl inside,
to close my eyes against the colors
against the light
to feel the wind curl around your limbs,
feel the bed sink beneath your hips
feel the immense weight
of longing pressed
against that vacant space
where empty things abide.