Leaving. The leaves relax, crusted brown,
Upset in the disoriented light.
Temples of gold front the afternoon.
I come in dryshod, in my mushroom-colored coat,
And lean a golden branch in the bronze vase.
I watch the impermanent green disintegrate.
Lobster-colored clouds merge and pass
On the arbor’s dilapidated bones.
I raise my brush. Softly I release
A runnel of gold. Morning-glory vines
Strangle the canvas, quince goes up in smoke.
Mornings are smeared with a little fog, dead browns.
I paint the morning, its embroidered silk,
The sky’s incertitude’s, shut-off stars,
A few innocuous pods beginning to break.
I paint this room, the vase, strawbottom chairs,
The bedspread stitched with thin blue petals
Where I wake at dawn in a meadow of cornflowers.
I learn the lion color of these hills.
I am full of the old fear of coming home,
Stopping in darkness, under the maples.
I have sketched the soft orchard, the whorl of time.
A gold leaf skips over the hardwood floor,
And nobody minds what these dark things have become,
Fistfuls of brightness on clear water,
A handful of wafers where the seasons broke.
I dream of the innumerable antlers of winter.
The crude, unpainted branch. My mother and father
Walk, knee-deep in leaf of oak,
In a garden where it is always October.
OH YEAH HIS ROBOT FALLS IN LOVE WITH HIM AND CANCELS HIS WEDDING WHAT A BITCH