TRAVELOGUE
what September sun there is,
low and walnut pale, clings to
the press of wool on her back—
she strips off the country coat,
eyes move with voltaic arcs of
fingers light as seafoam across
the grounds—like a tame, muted
shadow, she walks the length of
flowering trees and honeysuckle
bushes, laughing with erstwhile
daffodil-teeth, desiring ripened
breath of hot soil and dandelions
imperiled in harvest of weeds,
a symphony of verdant foil—and
when the sky milks over the palms
of her hands, slim and wispy, she
is no longer sure of the overhead
haze, the clutching roses, the feral
horses, but of her sighs tasted of
salt, grey skin autumn cold, feet
going wooden over earth from which
she becomes all at once invisible—