Sunrise through the window, October

Bloodorange and tear-clarity.
                                           Tell me
where it ends, cirrus-touched
                                           body
starting out of sleep skin
littered with what has died and what will die--

I forget where I begin.

I remember the dogwood and its smooth red beads.
Its rose and saffron, leaves
slipping from its bare arms, echo, echo.

And the lovers
framed in windows, desire curled in their hands,

the slow page of their night
turning behind them,
who feel their bodies' almost virginal sameness--

They want to change that.
They want to break each minute and swallow it like glass.

Sweet caul of sex--
And the crickets dying, sprawled,
voluptuous as whores, on the steps.

Watcher, what won't look back at you
                                           with your own,
infinitely sorry, face . . .

And the silver sheet of mist . . . such tenderness . . .
pale glass, pale girl, pale morning.