Sky grey as gunmetal,
cross breeze cold front raw and cutting
from the west, afternoon light thin
and abstinent. This has become
our November, month
when I sit down to write
some catastrophe of a poem
on the warm broth, sage
and lemon stuffed autumn bird
small fingerling, loose leaf dragonwell
long tongued wafer that is
my pleasure of you. All of this
aspires to cook and feed
fingertip to tonguepoint
the coming of last apple jam
against the evergreen tip
blight outside. There is a roasting pan
strapped to my back. Sunset
like thin ash scraped with a comb.
I have been sweating
pan drippings. Insidious oak wilt
in our line of bedroom sight.
I roll out my tongue to make
rosettes of whiskey buttercream.
Barolo braised diaphragm. Ragu
of the windpipe. Ganache laid
over bone marrow. Take it.
Even after our Eden
I name things for you.
