Cosmogony

pipe cold and pitted like the moon’s far facethe railing slips, my balance breaks, your arm,your breath, corral my waist, correct my neck,skull to shoulder blade, every nerve lit upand blinking like the mothership hoveringin disbelief above a field of ruined wheat,your voice more in my head than out insistsnot here (a dark shape warps away)we run for trees, our fingers leaking light(must be the pipe/the moon/the blasted grain)so young so not ourselves, the seasons wrong,branches bending ice to glimmer viridescent lawn,your summer mouth amid this rimy fallthundering the littered dark butbarely heard above my heart batteringthe space between its wet red nestand your hand fluttering beneath my dress.