November Where He Grieves

Feast of St. Andrew, November 30

Late autumn. Where autumn lingers,
a slim feast. In side yards, the spoon
mums serve up paucities for the eye:
cankered saffron, motley salmon
and puce—this is the body/

this the blood. It is theophany as murder
of the innocents: in house corners,
burning bushes gutter and keep mum.
The ornamental pears wear copper
and blood-orange, leaving a salt tang—
the smack of old pennies—on the eyes.

In the hollow, young gumtrees,
whip-slender,
bloody-palmed.