The leaves hang low in the gray morning.
Walking together we hear the shuddering of brown brittle
And the weak sirens of tired birds of our lowering light
Hanging like burnt plastic over the maroon slopes.
Gourded we traverse the crunchy spines at our feet
Left to bloat in our autumnal visions,
Our grooved and riding hopes
Waxen, pumpkin-like,
A soldier's march, though our mind
Moves in the hollow oaks like a wounded animal
Blinking vociferously for the meaning of life.
Though we arrange nothing
Think of little,
And breathe quietly in the simple orange
Pulsating with grace.
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