Fall Night

I SHUT my eyes and a boy blinks
his tart smoke tear through my lashes
where he goes by bonfire and streetlight
scuffing up yellow leaves and ashes.
He goes — how simply. Mystery,
like their polarity to birds,
looks out of him. Question him, you
can’t yet touch him with words.
His images are muscular
like a dog’s dozing; now they ache
their autumnal ritual of football
played through the early dark — that break
into the open, running running
to the white end-zone of the year,
star-balanced and wind-cut, self-sprung
from shock and tangle . . . There was sheer
being of bounding buck, owl
wafting, wolf . . . Can you hear me? Boy,
Boy, till you’re bagged and mounted in
the Beautiful, enjoy enjoy!