The last leaves of autumn
are sighing, sighing.
I sigh, too, when I think
of all the times I should have let go.
The silken water slips quietly
over stone shoulders.
If you listen deeply,
you will hear the night undressing.
The great blue king on unfurled wing,
sails through mackerel sky,
to alight once more upon shingled shore,
with strident, raucous cry.
At the dentist's office,
collywobbles distract me
from the war being waged
in the blood of my mouth
She is Sweet Sixteen.
Wherever she goes,
bouquets of small children
cling to her like butterflies.
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