The disappearance of sunlight
leaves me chilled and pale,
sapped and straining to see
the million stringless kites of leaves 
fade into cloud, along with

the warmth that has lubricated old bones
with the lush humidity of feathered
chartreuse. Punishment
for the pure hedonism of summer,
light itself inches away,

having cradled us each evening,
baptized us with the waters
of the almost-midnight sun,
unsettled us with too much day.
Luminescence is what made summer

jingle like a jester in radiant palaces 
like so much laughter. Now,
having made the queen chortle,
the clown returns to a damp cottage
consigned to a starless winter.
                        

Put one foot in front of the other.
Advance slowly. Go through the motions.
Pretend to be living.

The world is couch-surfing.
There’s a sad satisfaction 
when movie stars die, rich and ugly

in glittery suits, their films the dated echo
of an Oscar. They can no longer
put one foot in front of the other.

I wake up to a yellow sky, wanting only
coffee and ginger dipped in chocolate,
which I haven’t tasted in years.

Arise and go now. Put one foot
in front of the other. The borders 
are closing. Plague is the victor.

I am saved only by the scent of a lover’s skin, 
the lavender still blooming at the back door
shouldering the sage, skinny and spent.

Cardboard boxes sleep in the basement,
dreaming of justice, with old trophies 
that meant a lot back then. And the photos,

damply clinging to each other like odd sisters.
I have graduated into old age. The privilege
of watching the dawn delivers syllables of pain.

I don the knee brace,
walk slowly a mile or two, my joints giving way
every few blocks. I put one foot in front of 

the other.  Tonight
I will talk to old friends
on the phone, a thousand miles away.

Later, I will learn Italian, play piano,
study physics, banish the thought 
of weeds in the garden.

The stars will come out again, the folk songs
of war and peace. Thundery rains will calm 
the voice of the cicadas in their final frenzy.

I ignore the chimes of the tabletop clock,
every quarter hour, relentless as the years 
that follow me like a stray dog.

Peaches ripen in a blue bowl, white curtains
blow slightly, hovering above the sink,
keeping watch over crumbs on the table.

My invisible footprints weave daisy chains
through the dim hallway, ready to ghost
the next inhabitants of the house.

I recall our orchard days, embracing under 
bowers of blossoms that came, like us, from
a handful of dirt. 

I open the front door, let the light in. 
I put one foot in front of the other, moving on 
until the ribbons of morning tie up another day. 

The cicadas are singing at night, invading the dark 
with rough music. May I live to hear them again
in seventeen summers. 

I put one foot in front of the other.