See it does rise, and will not be stalled
by the dew point, how murky the aura, nor
by the sight of the face that has been my face
wry-turned on the shelf.
Where does it go to? It goes to the sky
which is also the sea, salted and horse-tailed
and urging toward autumn and its talent to gel
and turn all runny edges to smooth gem-cut sheen.
Straight from my sun the light shoots up,
through my hair, ecstatic, and on to the place
of iced light and sharp cider, the taste of apples
pressed free, done with the bark and the bees
and the barrels: the clear golden blood you can pour
on your tongue or on the ground, it has risen past care.