Every late summer casts molten bells that ripen in my kidneys.

Gutted brass winds surround heating pads, muscle-rub, wandering

vulnerabilities. Infant winter clangs my back on autumn's anvil.

Tell me take angled hours easy now. Lay me parallel. Unwind the vines.

Train me up new reasons like every predecessor. Like a magician

plucking day common chores from a whimper.

We'll make it, won't we? Where miners set down hammers to

sniff a set of milky puppies? Please, remind me what I've seen and

how to soften.