One Last Autumnal Song
The sun peeps today,
and the half-bare are foliaged like pole dancers.
Dot my frisky steps, the autumn is not dead
but giving alms to the sky.
Walk with me, but do not talk
I have to listen to what the leaf says
as it pollinates its own grave.
My god is smiling at the clouds
they are doing their job, and I mine;
we are all falling upwards.
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