A poem for autumn
Hard wings at the heart
beat to beat to beat within:
a buffet of feathers a buffet of flesh—
the buffet of fire, of a rising wind.
A cold wind redolent of the cold must of old loss
sways the curtain wall of the body
side to side to side on the structure of the spine.
To seem a firm tower is only illusion.
Pain-sharp vertigo is the tide
that rocks and wrecks…
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