Those tender leaves worn as earrings,

his eyelid closes and remembers,

are these leaves closing across the broad avenues

on a drive by the shore, sunshine off the lake's silver

another face of Hermes' coin, a dream of passage into a thaw

So what he thought was rain in spring is snow

covering rocky graves open in the fields of poppies

and the river propelled forward by its filaments of fish

is her memory twinned with now and now of a drowning pulse.