Howard Firkin
Your footsteps scuffle down along the branches
and gather in the gutters against benches
or skip along the paths of your design,
a crazy clockwork that keeps only your time.
Your lawns are flexed like muscles under skin.
The water laps a tongue inside my mouth,
and fallen leaves, damp with your scent and taste,
are tensed in waiting and in waiting moist
for gates to close too late and let night in.

Each day will bring new picnic crumbs;
you’ll taste the seed of many sowers’ hands,
and leave into your leaves when nightfall comes
and lisps the words that no one understands.