the tempered anxiety of autumn

Prone,  November                                                                     
















Just your slow, pink movements near the doorway.
If there were fields, they'd long ago rolled back in agate bliss.

Until you were indelible, a dahlia.

Bale of hay, almost made for a woman bent over.

Her pale sweet hedging (which,

in certain landscapes,

is an early form of love. )

I want you slow: birds hover near my waist.

Not sleep in the distance but the mimeograph

of sleep.

Above all else, the trembling resembles a forest. 


















                                               Louise  Matthias




























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