Bear witness to the cruel, yes.
And bear witness to the cruel
love that binds all ideation.
Rejoice in Autumn’s summer waltz
— crush leaves underfoot and
dance with the death of things.
There is little time to saddle furies
as chargers and hurl into winter
as if bourne against pikes.
Such verdance can never hold.
Rather, see the sweet coil
of weathers, how they wrap, fold
as if parting, how they embrace,
young perhaps, then dragged into loss
without the pool of age, without
sigh but wailing as hands slip free.
Bitter perhaps, the last taste
of you on my fingertips, metallic:
chronic — the silence of a kiss:
cruel — the seasons between this