Central Park

One November on a nervous amble
in the chilly dusk, we stop, turn, and fall.
The corresponding flurry of dry leaves
sweeps over us, spreadeagled as we are,
drenched in the early attitudes of lovers.
Leaves alone inhabit the charged space
between us, hint and crackle underneath,
behind, around, creeping into an ear
(dangerously), across the refusing
crook of arm and sluggish knee, against
brow and eyelid and the sweat, resting there.
Lips left bare for motion or meeting, we
will stir at the chosen moment and reach
for newer terrain under all these clothes.
When our backs arch and stiffen and shudder
we will shake off the ministering leaves,
and as if in agreement with each other
our bodies will mash the life out of them.