Short Creosote Poems

End

The tent of Autumn is wet,
Nights as dark as creosote,
Days that fall like

Mother apples which bruise
With cold sweetness.
The impending conspiracy of

Frost;Laburnums stripped to
Bare frames, each fox pulled
By the neck into the

Hedgerows.Let go, curled leaf,
You are tired and dragged with sleep,
And can not look the snow away.