Compost

Squash-colored leaves parachute
over the Highlands bridge
with directionless joy.
Beady headlights scramble
the road below unknowing,
pulling to both poles at once
like some schizophrenic river.
I know we are undone.
Complacent, splayed.

A bit of breeze might freeze you,
nick your kevlar chest
with my pear-shaped prayer,
my shrapnel syllables
a wound to the hollow tomb
of safety pin skin.

Good posture does not make you good.
You blew like true the little ledge
you were tonguedumb stalking,
hairy Heathcliff on the moors
sans passion sans pride sans whatever
simmers the cinder in my gut,
knew you would tidelike keep
retreating to and from the umbrella
stuck in the sand on the shore.

Aviatophobia in an awkward grasp
(murky heat from musty core),
despite your assiduous calculations
of feet per second and landing gear.
Epiphanies of falling, not a
misplaced embrace of wings.

Gratia plena and onion rings.
I favor this escape,
pick brown stalks and green tomatoes,
dump bits of tired earth
and eggshells already broken,
and one more call at midnight,
into the heap to sleep
and dream of spring.