Short days. The leaves are falling
to the deadline of the ground, gold

as the pages of myth. I feel the cold earth
fall away from the sun, the light’s heart harden.

I fall too, as if from the glinting plane overhead,
backwards, through fierce blue, though I only lie

in your arms, on our coats, the last hour of autumn,
grasping a fistful of yellowing grass as you move in me,

fall and fall and fall towards you, your passionate gravity.