What comes dropping down are
figments of the earlier parts
of the year. An orange tank passes through flames, the deep
ice of uncertain, Octobered air: red automobiles
push used leaves out their blue
Comes dropping down, greener
parts of the year: cracked zephyrs gusting away
from themselves... down through ochre
jeeps and tanks, the red cars. October wind
sometimes a sunset made mild with falling
freight, as if much that was so is now
Dropping down through hanging maple
tolls come hotter parts and their priors, their futures. Ice's
hold on, relent of, earlier designs. October sometimes
a bland return to revving through the same
never-had-as-lover clear spaces, to growth ruses,
madder banks of cloud flitting westerly
Down through which are the last parts
of earlier plans: clemencies among the silver
warplanes of building cold, écru tents of last
heats, in an ebb of strategy. Each in sunset's camouflagesunset's
mutations of intentionbruised tiers, darker cars, big new clouds of breath,
October wind in which some burdened guesses
as to how
the year will take itself apart and you.
Last night I felt I could die.
I felt strong.
There was heat around me.
I had no friends I wanted.
Geoffrey G. O'Brien