Thanksgiving
   
The fox is in his shadow. I am under the hill.
A loose sense of things metastasizes
And we are suddenly shifted to another key,
The barley thick round here this time of year.
Desire, like fire and water,
A faithful servant and a willful master.

There is always a cleaving and a burning
No less than there is fleshlessness:
We are bound to what we love, body after body,
Each turning in the sun for days
And then incandescing in another way, seen
In other ways: and then we will speak star to star.

These late days
Are brilliant in their ardor, a latent pallor
So distant from the sun, so pure
In their desuetude. Nighttime comes with the hush
Of expectation, but what we waited for was pure,
Was nothing at all.