Cosmogony

pipe cold and pitted like the moon’s far face
the railing slips, my balance breaks, your arm,
your breath, corral my waist, correct my neck,
skull to shoulder blade, every nerve lit up
and blinking like the mothership hovering
in disbelief above a field of ruined wheat,
your voice more in my head than out insists
not 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 fall
thundering the littered dark but
barely heard above my heart battering
the space between its wet red nest
and your hand fluttering beneath my dress.