Prone, November   Just your slow, pink movements near the doorway. If there were fields, they’d long ago rolled back in agate bliss. Until you were indelible, a dahlia. Bale of hay, almost made for a woman bent over. Her pale sweet hedging (which, in certain landscapes, is an early form of love.) I want you slow: birds hover near my waist. Not sleep in the distance but the mimeograph of sleep. Above all else, the trembling resembles a forest.   Some of my favorite turns in contemporary American poetry are of the astounding hairpin sort, a mountain road, night, your headlights try to gleam through the rain but instead reflect off it, freezing or nearly so, no guard rails and just a couple…