Hinge as if breath depends on it,
if water deepened its breast tomorrow,
to reel it back in and swallow,
whittled down to totem poles that fit in your palm:
Pennsylvania sycamores rust, kAY-tee-dIds
buck this humming sugared November,
geese slip tender under my flannel sheets,
warn me that this cannot last:
harden deer-corn left to crack,
and fold under the stolid pressure of widowed stagnance,
the pale face of keep-on-fighting, even as we pack it in,
give ourselves airs but we ain’t fooling no body,
our hands wEAthereDim the evening light.
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