November,
and rosehips flare against the low-slung sky.

I grew up an autumn ago,
exiled from the arms that I knew so well,
and now I walk the rabbit road
with a lover from the north country.

We have harnessed our dreams together
with the indemnity of each kiss, but always

I remember my unburned body
made of onyx, made of ivory, made of clay,
made for the man of wheat and sea.