something seasonal

from the little black book on the back of my desk, furiously, seriously scribbled (no doubt)



autumn again


you thought that merging with all that was in flux would pull you out
but it was an eddy
                             and no one heard you swirl

the crack never fills
ticks, nails, leeches, ants, coffee cups, grease, shoe rubber, conversations, right & wrong
i'm on my knees
                          blind, groping

i suspect i dissolve as i age
absorbed into some god-awful solution whose sole purpose is to kill me utterly along with everything i remember
                  leaves in the storm pipe

you know the answer you will get
why do you ask the question?
the equations inside your language are unsolvable
                                                                                maybe illegal

i read somewhere that you have to be the path in order to walk the path
but i still crawl
farsighted & crooked
                                  tracing fallen things over slickness

***

so now we sleep like mosses over old brick
slow and unaware, green and steady
the familiar fuzziness in and around us always

***

we'll try again tomorrow
                                       (next season)


--sept '16