When We Will Nap

For three long days
grayed stone sky fingers have unfurled
arthritic selves and showered down
that half-water, half-ice anesthetic
which brings on sleep's small desires.

There are loaves of bread in the oven
and yeast hanging in air like lovers' haunted breaths.
On the table: fat eggplants in autumn's purple fullness,
bright red peppers raised from the yard's darkened soils,
a delicate basket of drying mint pulled from the fence line.

Erie Cottage

This is where I boned you
tendering filet after filet
from that essence of familiar body,
the glistening slant of your plane's bold desire.
This is the stone moment framed in timber
hewn from this island ninety long, sorry years ago.
This is the arc of your spine,
the mathematical curve of each
of your two differing breasts
beneath the heaviness of snow and waterfowl,
the lake's blank, frozen stillness.
This is the formula: you and I
and heavy, heavy storms forever

James S. Proffitt