Published in
​The Door Is A Jar

on these nights
 
at the end of spring
when orange blossoms dream
from migrant gardens and we dream
from the burrows of our empty beds
 
on these nights
 
at the end of summer
when sweat mingles with sweat
and each lover’s salt
burns in the mouths of new wounds
 
on these nights
 
at the end of autumn
when the hunter’s moon, sweeping
the low horizon, tracks us
through yarrow sticks of bare tree tops
 
on these nights
 
at the end of memory
while the north wind numbers our bones