Morning, Again

The fly dwells in the ivy
again,
his cocoon is no self,

it is a costume.

Fabric slips off of a woman’s
wet body
like an ice slab melting into the Arctic,

ad it is there on the floor again,
and
her body is all points, it sings like luminescent water.

Our jack-o-lanterns have
cried themselves
to sleep, shriveled into the sad old faces of mice
eating them,

and the leaves have crawled
into the oven of earth
to bake into tiny chips.