Poem

Happenings

Too late, summer, nothing
happens in autumn
except love and death.
What can you love, Love?
What can you hold in your arms
that isn’t death? Fallen

leaves gathered up to my lips, the moment
you stood in my field
of vision, the happening began,
‘X’ marked the spot, the hard sow,
the trauma; squash and pumpkin color
filled my veins and heart. Your

head lay in my bone lap,
the moon half-risen and night
half-fallen. The moment
you arched your back
to my silence, the October wind
happened to sweep all of us away.