your stirrings are my own
this cool morning of gray shades, necessary covers

like the dog, paw in his green bowl,
you are loud for food and walk

we pick the last raspberries of October

and the wind blows leaves around us
pretending at sunshine
as we pretend to speak all consonants,
then all vowels

your rest is also my own
when I turn pages, your eyelids flicker

lowering light wakes us

and we race honeybees to find dusky sweetness –
pine needles, broken leaves, grass, black dirt

but a mouse has died under the dining room table
from poison your father planted four days before

elsewhere, the earth swallows our venom
its stomach radiates great fires

on your red plate, thin slices of Honeycrisp,
avocado, sweet corn; the window,
full with half-ripe tomatoes, hot peppers

no one should have to die in pain, afraid
but that is death for the living

the quiet of your slumber settles stairs,
tables and chairs, sills and sofas

your father and I, too tired to untangle our limbs

The Lake, January 2016