In the disorder of leaves
smoke rises,
stroking your hair.
A west wind hisses,
snagging fox tail
and red pine cluster.
We drink cider in mugs
filled from subterranean streams.
The descent into hell
was flight, not a search
for beauty.
I never scaled
the talking tower.
I never looked
inside the beauty box.
Curling up, we wait,
maples’ winged seeds
pressed in your Bible.
In this hurricane
season, sun and satellite act as one.
Night falls
without a trumpet blast
from heaven. We look for signs.
Since equinox,
we have been as pointed
as a crescent, smoothed briefly
by Indian Summer.
A new moon gleams
on the other side---
a crow’s view of the Pantheon.
Midnight washes away
grit accumulated
from days of wood burning.
The calendar calculates.
Numerals ignite on a Catherine wheel.
Each cipher, a rocket,
forces the helm to veer.
Someday digits will be charred
pinwheels and ash,
while Psyche weeps
at her loss;
not of loveliness,
but of you,
having consumed
all of your numbers.