Love sets you going, an engine, a seed. Her sun was a "fat gold watch," mine a blue fire encased in snowy quartz. Birthday chrysanthemums set just so on the front porch stairs, ripe for admiration. Pumpkins and gourds, empty boxes, a chair for the barn cat we all call "Kitty." Morning after the sun rises and Chrisoula wakes and well into my third cup of coffee I check the various traps, happily empty, and go on writing poems. A sense when one sleeps of being enfolded in amber, coming out with insights about oral sex and love, and later putting it into words lest the art of self-interpretation remain untested. A light in September as maple leaves turn gold and topless. No heart is all the heart we have now, which is all that makes us religious in the end. A dream of us standing under trees we're taking down later, talking through how making something topple is not the end but the beginning.