The Dying Season (for Milo)

                Pink mouths
the fuchsias have fallen           open and glad
their plucked tongues fanned still on the wintering stone.
            And I,
tumbling upon them
with my day-heart and my needle lip
            ruffling them to wreathes.
            No griefs
in the quickening turn             the run of things
the birds fenced in by fog and wind
            the browning days
the dug-in sun.
            The dying season.       And the rain comes
loud as a twinning sound
                      pooling in the dents that absence has left.
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