darker

Anna's dermis feels later than it is,
for postaphelion truncations of daylight increase
--a drama we repress--more quicky than our sens-
itivity to changing weather patterns and pressure
& illumnation. (O gold, spatter
my letters to Anna's mother.) ...touch
her olio peel, palping that nubbinly slick color.
It's not Octavian's pun-month, but another
Caesar's--gold again, this supper picnic light--
when we'll sit friendly, her ghost & I fading.