what burnished hours we are
awake in gold leaf alleys (our familiar
haunts transplanted)
we distill summer fire.
alchemists of autumn, our
five-point happiness is crisp,
a drunken pollock scatter on asphalt.

we reminisce of jericho,
crash of earthbound foliage
the echo of a
devil's horn,
calling for the naked season.
(you and i know
better than to reason)

my head is maple-wind swept
(no longer home to
scowls of thunder) and your ear
hears fertile earth (a
fiercely independent dirt)
and here we scour,
sloughing old skin
to feed starved snow dreams.

(a fat winter
is ours when)

10/29/2006

Author's Note: take this, e.e. cummings.

Posted on 10/29/2006
Copyright © 2026 Peter Hsu