Every late summer casts one more molten bell to ripen

in my kidneys. Gutted brass winds surround

heating pads, muscle-rub, wandering vulnerabilities.

Infant winter clangs my back on autumn's anvil.

Tell me to take angled hours easy now. Lay me on your

parallel and unwind the vines of me. I can be trained

up new reasons like every predecessor. Like a magician

plucking good common chores from a whimper.

We'll make it, won't we? Where miners set down hammers

to sniff a set of milky puppies? How is anything soft

left after all the blood’s been propped underground?

Please, remind me what I've seen and how to soften.