A vacant hour

before the sun-

and with it a valve's

pneumatic hush,

the deep and nautical

clunk of wood,

chanson du ricochet

of rivet gun,

trowel tap,

and bolt drawn-

 

the moon sets

and water breaks.

 

Curled within

a warm pleroma,

playing for time,

you finally turn

and push your face

toward November's

glint of frost,

grains of salt,

weak clarities

of dawn.