turn of september

now we begin to farm our hardened organs
exhume them from the darkness
where they've been growing softer in the warmth of the soil

in a reverse rite of spring, let's set them in again
a beating furnace burns all aching to feathery ash
and the wine-red liver returns to cleanse its brother blood

in fall and winter, we'll be kept warm in the gloom.
refueled by les feuilles mortes and mint tea and the smell of pine,
slow engines purr, and will heat
greying skin to a rosy pink while the sun's aloof,
with a subtlety it couldn't possess