Howard Aaron
	Seven Days     for Kenneth Rexroth i. In the Cascade Mountains autumn leaves refuse to fall. Cold fires twist on each branch. I wait for you to call. ii. Deep blue irises. Same color as the lake. I attempt to pick one. The earth shifts. iii. I was born in the desert sun. The crow's beak grew large. So many years later he still hovers, my arms scarcely fill my sleeves, these hands barely hold things. iv. I mailed you a box filled with tiny perfume bottles. Like me, the postman longed to kiss you. v. I wander the prairie and look for you along miles of railroad tracks. Instead I find smashed pennies. They remind me of the lovely curve of your back. vi. They say the rats in these walls live better than us. But they have never shared your handkerchief. vii. Eternity takes up residence in the shell of midnight. I close my eyes again and dream of the thousand ways mango slices and tomatoes glisten in your white palms.