Conkers

Hang like horses balls, drop
one by one, clock cars and sidewalkers.
Upon impact, the heavy rind splits

to reveal brown flanks birthmarked
by an asymmetrical moon. Ambilical cap,
still musty with sex, we nose

before gathering in our pockets
to ward corners. Growth rings
store the season’s intervals:

from beach volleyball to Windsor knot.
Summer flown south on the back of a swallow;
the lakes we swam in are turning over,

heavy water sinking to the bottom.
So too our blood cycles, as we
armor ourself for the coming cold.