I love autumn and the shadow of meaning, and I like
in autumn a light mystery of diaphanous handkerchiefs,
like poetry in the burst after birth, dazzled
by the incandescent night or the dimness of light.
It crawls and doesn’t find the names for things.
I like a light rain that wets only the distant others:
Once, in a similar autumn,
a wedding parade of ours crossed
ways with one of the funerals, and the living celebrated
the dead, the dead the living.
I like to see a king bow to retrieve
the pearl of the crown from a fish in the lake.
I like the radiance of color in autumn, when there’s no
throne for the humble gold upon the humble
leaves, an equality in the thirst of love.
I like that it is a truce between two armies waiting for
the duel of two women poets who love autumn,
but differ over the course of metaphor.
And I like in autumn the collusion between
vision and phrase.