Eve

Western drinks in western air pour out Toward the mountains on our gas-rich Chief bound north. Tapered candles drip Over plastic jetties of blood-soaked strips, Yuletide potatoes, yesterday’s tinsel, Harlequin beards dimming the diamond Pool nonplussed at the new lady bathing Dilating in her divine. As new dawns Float with foxglove, a simple crack Of the window reveals the sea edging Away from the territory. Some deep Desire could split this aluminum house Into chapeled trinity. Such flights Of fancy may be elegance at work Guests parqueted in the tranquil heat Whose sighs like a train pulling into The station are the sounds of wedlock As the new year ebbs and floats waiting As if it thought it would, as suns kneel Colonnade hopping in a plaster of dried Fruit shimmering in chandeliers— She is Queen of the Fall, lighting the fine Grain of her hair, an alarm clock, a robe All that she graced having already died We the dead living among her dead.