At the Tavern

a drum falls
in the leaves
red, golden spun
soft, rumble and roll
and I run my bare toes
through them
and my fingers across the skin
a dance begins between
this woman
her earth
and a shivering
articulated dialect of branch, color, breath
and wandering
through memory,
a warmer stretch
the supple course of muscle
his wing spanned
against her
and then their dance done:
having already swept the mostly dark
whole-moon sky

third wing (or: and I said to Grace)

there is something, Grace,
basic and beautiful
and unknowable about this space
known girl grown to the
check and balance of the
sun and the moon’s
attenuation of bone, feather
and wing
i stay
we flow
so not against or for the
me, why, who, when and
where to
cherish this moment, again
and how