Different leaves
of autumn come
to flow along—
hazels with oaks,
and in their midst—
a birch and an aspen
through a maple coat
of frost and fire chinks.
And so each over another
the leaves of tickets to bliss
lightly touch and finger
the autumn rain they dream
like lovers fallen
out of their kiln
when the night
and love are over,
and so is
stormy heat,
and the body—
dropped and drowsy
as if it was drowned
and left to drift at mercy
to the dark and not knowing
what will or motion used to be
in this rush of utter stillness,
as if one’s soul has lost
its earthly irons,
and a Siren’s song
has moved it
like a violin—
that leaves its holster,
soaring to another world,
with beauty armed and to bliss released.
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