Autumn Road
There is dancing and death along,
all along the Autumn Road.
There are flowers at the side of the road
dying,
browning easily through the dawn and
the hanging cuts of night.
They spelled a name once, stretching
each sound between gold and red,
shaking off neon as a dog does rain.
The flowers burn in the sun, each turn
of the dial, until the aching hours
after they were placed by melting hands.
Soon rain-bled then wind-driven
and seen from safety, unless
one yearning petal touches your path.
Nevertheless to be brushed underfoot,
misplaced or open oblivion.
The flowers crease like a yellowing
forehead.
Remain beyond the name.
Page(s) 29
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