A poem for autumn

Slide with me, world, dark and gentle
Fall through me, time, swift and lovely

In dying days I lift my eyes, I fill them up
With warm senescent gold

Cherished footsteps of summer, growing fainter
I cannot hold you here

How long does the memory of sun
Persist in the brain?
Not as long as in your multifarious earth
     Cool and still to me
     Hot and teeming within
Store the light against that dark day
When even you are trapped in snow, alone
     But waiting

fallll

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Nature / dualism hurts in an ecstatic way

This ain’t 1830, bro.  But it seems nature is all I want to write poems (or rather, sloppy quasi-poems) about, so here I go.


Bright lights,

Castles of desire,

Rocking tides of sweetness,

Birds that know you when they see you,

Skies your soul can touch when it hears the sound and unfurls,

The urbane fragrance of autumn and the intimate fragrance of damp earth,

Dark leaves painting the foreground of the sunset with their fine dewy motile brush,

All rushes in in the agony, the awful crack of dislocation from the static cohesion of SELF, things going through me and filling me because I’m not even here to impede them.

No one sense organ is where I am, correct?  Maybe I am everywhere, or a semipermeable membrane, or a filter that is often clogged.