Fall

If even it should ever be
that you loosen the arch of your speech
to shovel up tears
dead in their idiotic slip
like words that fall
out and with no aim
where hours have no fit
and space is too much

to make your tongue a bed
of frozen desire
cementing ancient mirages
like the sin of Rodin's kiss
fatal in the eternity of its past
a hole larger than its own void

we shall expend
the fertile coals
jailed in our guts
where bread breaks down
like the terror of the torn pearl necklace
rolling in infinite scarlet loss
both catastrophes greater than the
fruit they ignite
like your lips flambé
inebriating our strangled talk

the apples in fall
a premonition that keeps our fears awake
if only Sisyphus shouldn't know
our contention against time
would never seem so futile
and awards to guilt would license
love
in time.