The Last Afternoon
Let's forget that we're dying,
that it's fall,
that I smelled snow last night.
Let's just pick out these onions at the market,
the ones the farmer steals an extra dollar for,
and talk about tonight's supper.
There is sunshine on the back of your bare hand now
where you are holding it over an acorn squash,
and this is the last afternoon.
We gave all our days away, I think,
hiding my dirty fingernails under my scarf.
Even here, though, the long light is beautiful.