the feet are still curled impatiently
outside the down filled womb,
mooching a cool that will not blow
in a tomb beyond encumbrance:
shadowy etchings shudder doom
and there is no horn to shriek,
despite our brassy confidence.
this sense of autumnal coldness
is not thawed by rhythm springs
that creep but cannot squash
the mordant bounce of echo
or the freckled swell of tears:
we both deny retarded sleep
and force the deck for giggles-
gray swabs wash a tidal grief
that is terrycloth and tearful.
when the seasonal leap is readied,
only the wings of the wasp do sting.