I met Miasma Autumns one day
when her shadow fell across mine.
Waving three cool hands, she was
steady and in tune ‘twixt rocks
aggregate. She sewed me over.
Every leaf she stitched begot
thin, bleached, labrosone rustles,
and I knew certainly then, that
it was the song of all earthly commons.
There seemed to be a feeling
with her, as if Medieval con-men
never were. (Those who talked
you into believing that Boeings
existed above the Evergreen
when their feet roamed around).
They each lived latent among her
when she braided my skin up high.
The rustles soon gave way, gave
out in stretched crescendo;
became honourable, stiff bygones
to one Shepherd’s adoration.
One sheep’s bray at her receding
limbs, and I felt my blindness,
my deafness again. And the rocks
which, in one instant, carried
the hums of everything most
primordial, now echoed my
shadow in bland singularity.
I anticipate, if such a moment
needs a next time, that another
Autumns’ branch will extend above,
holding dexterous, sutures with
exactly four legged wings. An offer
of speech’s organ made. At every
word thereof, versed rustles heard.
Crisp kindred, our shadows:
once shone in novel spectacles,
shone once torrid, pained, and
queened stoves.
For now, So coldly
sat in is her see,
the dead heat moon.
