260 Pieces

I am not writing
a poem about
the walk

we took today, about
the exploding
hillside

on fire
with every red
and yellow on earth,

about how you and I
agreed that this
is the most delicate

part of the season,
such sweetness in certain
brevity

before the white winds
come down
from the North.

Instead, I am building
a Boeing 767
in a sleeping house,

one lamp lit
over the plastic piles
of black and white,

grey and blue,
so many loose wheels,
and me as I shudder with

inexplicable glory
as the last wing
slides into the fuselage

and snaps into place
for the small boy
to find in the morning.