It'ws hard to get
away from the furies
of autumn,
drenching
withered streets
in diesel pools,
staccato
carburretors
silenced by birdsong
and by overboiled
meridian
lines
choke holding
this Indian summer.
We
gathered our friends
and tag'd their feet
when
even
the stars were meaning-
less.
We dug
holes
for them.
And
afore th'
atrocity
was recorded
by historians,
(who have no
module
for the
fragrance
of decay)
we saw
more bodies
and rubber tyres
floating
past the library roof
like a computer game.
Senseless -
this isometric
despair,
as a stretch
of Rocky Mountains
that dips
away from the horizon
and into a docile
lake unseen -
senseless.
Now,
after
the hardbacks
sold out
and comissioned
memorials
blossom with fig
and cherry pollen
in autumn renewed,
there is only
the hole
filled in
to remind us
of the calm
before,
and
after,
the storm.
9/1/05
