When within ourselves in autumn we feel the autumn I become very still, a kind of singing, and try to move like all things green, in one direction, when within ourselves the autumn moves, thickening like honey, that light we smear on faces and hands, then touch the far within one another, something like autumn, and I think when those who knew the dead, when they fall asleep, then what, then what in autumn when I always feel I'm writing in red pencil on a piece of paper growing in thickness the way a pumpkin does, traveling at fantastic speed toward orange, toward rot, when in autumn I remember that we are cold-smitten as I continue smearing red on this precipice, this ledge of paper over which I lean, trying to touch those I love, their bodies rusting as I keep writing, sketching their red hands, faces lusting for green. Copyright © 2017 Mark Irwin. Used with permission of the author. |
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