Subject Molt
You are sprung from the angle of inner event
and rise through the hydraulics of ventricles
like a birdcall in a storm drain
emptying into an
impersonal purposeless cosmos
where a pumpkin lies exploded
and a borough of October
scratches its asphalt
back with leaves.
Uniform stoops unroll
their tongues of stairs
as the dim light of living
rooms is crossed and recrossed
by a chain of streetlamps
proposing then passing your shadow
through your body repeatedly
as though you were a simple vehicle
for your own reputation.
Night is a flat, stupid wall
that does not occur, is smooth
in its constancy as you occur
to it like a passing thought.
It has become your role to travel
your palms over the topography
hunting for seams,
silence widening around you
in an orb, so each person you pass
grows momentarily hushed
while the truth of trees expresses itself
most fully in deception.
The attractiveness of autumn
is a defense mechanism,
nitrogen sucked
down into vacuoles, water
withheld from limbs for fear
of frost and expensive green
chlorophyll drawn
down to leave
exposed in abscised piles
the pandemonium of chromium yellow
and nosebleed red that live
seasons beneath.
