Those moon-burnt apples
come again at this time of year
as I come again to that spot
I call our absence—never apart,
just absent. The holly blazes
as well, at night, in that day-avenue
of gates and robins, it blazes so bright
it dulls itself with effort:
turned inwards, red burns black,
which the night is not,
scintillate with moon
and air as temperate as skin;
up close to you, the crunch
of stone underfoot, all
disturbances of the blood
draw us to where the air is clearest,
where we can fill our lungs
with the particles
that break off,
gravitate between us.