Nimbus of dusk: breathing naked
in the gray mirror, sitting in its chair.
To walk evenings to the bridge
overlooking the slow-moving water.
Little copy of itself: lengthening forever.
Years layering one atop the other.
While outside the window the rheumy eye
of moon, gout infected.
The yellow pus of clouds drifting by.
Three crows in a black willow, four in a tupelo.
Like the time we drowned
then sat down with our families for supper.
To write in our journals: here is the skin
that I have shed.
Clothes/hair dripping, lungs asleep.
To live in the penumbral avenues
And no one with the heart
to tell us.