we echo the browning smoke,

the virginia woods that turned

to indian hue years before

we were imagined-

the leaves trail in

as with midnight drawn

we pull up the curb and

catch the wet of morning

grass. we look tired and

ill, but we're really fine.

our blood has sung out

for years in hidden places,

in sweet-smelling copse

we square off dreaming that

same heart. we are only those

who dreamed us.