Between the tangles of all the floggings
skies
flame out of their cage,
to proceed the pilgrim leaves
whose meaningless deaths
are testaments to how they worshiped light,
and how they burned doing so.
To my crunchy steps
the awning and umbrellas of trees close for the season,
where
on the spur of the moment my eyes concede
to the exponent of invocation,
to the pleading arms
of these brown naked halved fountains
to the firmament.
-Halved, for only in their leaves or by the axes
they would ever hit the ground again.-
I walk through autumnal leaves
stepping in the gray bemoaning.
