December 1 –

Too warm, but it smells of snow.
Some car sound, as if an owl–

hollow note. The night comes
on like gratitude, always there,

but sometimes staggering
in effect. I get too wan,

too brittle, my tongue
too parched to say just

how I treasure things,
but it would be a mistake

to doubt it–
no, I’m no collector,

but give me the moon
like a pearl on velvet,

some shinning look–
I could write a book

on your eyes alone,
the sluice of friendship,

the sea of love, I am
a boat borne on,

even on nights
like these, stale

and starless, it could
easily be day