The carnival in the forest leaves no trace,
interior nomad born of autumn bright;
across the campus pillar'd halls hoard sleight
and runic annal-lace.
I crunch these paths so long ago first trod
by me, or something half resembling me:
what one might call largesse or treachery,
has swept the inly-flawed.
Coldly brilliant Fall like nowhere else,
as i again will in this word-heap browse
the chamber of a morning; briefly house
my solitude that melts.
Far, but always at my fingertips,
the thought of war--and how does one decline
our latest gift? except with books or wine
across pried lips.
