it’s autumn and i am again studying
the state of tasteful undress, kinda wingin’ it
like those art thieves who were the most
ardent lovers of art of all time. like time that exists
so that not everything happens all at once.
ain’t that the truth? luckily, time ain’t
no angel of sentimentals. 

it’s autumn and these trees are like no
trees i grew up with, so extortionistic, so red,
how could i not press that into an cliched phrase
about aging and burning? it has occurred
to everyone else over the centuries, and in that
can i insist on my intellect? and will that lead
to winter?