The Forecast

Distrust this season breeds

in me whole

blue worlds, am second

to leafy nouns,

pinned back darkening lip

of the night,

untrustworthy sidewalk glazed

and sleeping there,

peachy trees, a line drawn from one

brow of a star down

and planted, each pillow

little shimmer, little wilt startled

from out the arranging field

moonlit pale behind

no foxes, in me finding the fragrant

new crisis, not dead still

where I love you in feast

and pledge, worlds rolling first

on crookedly

and on.