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Fall Back 
It's not my idea of a fair
exchange: the gift of an hour
for dark afternoons; riotous air
flocked with geese and deciduous showers
for stalks shorn, stubbed in fields
plowed down; late-yield tomatoes, sun shot,
for tight-fisted sprouts chilled
ripe by frost. All spells loss, all but
then
Indian Summer.
Alone
at home on the clock-turning night
(through the window an errant, hazed moon),
angling the blade of this buttering knife,
I coax seeds—small found compensations—
from the flesh of a cleft pomegranate.
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