our fall leaves
green seasons. fiery
yet controlled burns
leave a smoldering mine.
the ash bores fall into mind,
with an arch a typically
undefeated bole escalates
through the cold. our august desires warp
like broken bones and boughs of death
that grace our soon frozen town.
skeletons emerge to costume youth’s frown
and grace the molt of newly naked poplars’
brown decay of summer on the ground.
cleanliness is godliness.
are those the words you said?
rakes manipulate as pants capitulate coldly. Later
we give offerings to the emblems of our end,
prompted only by three words.
the trick is love or the treat is numb.
are those the words you leave me?
it’s better than what I have, so I rub my own hands to prepare to fight the cold.
this city doesn’t send trucks to haul our fall’s debris,
but plows will soon cut paths
through missed cauls and primal wauls to mauls we’ve put in heart.