Autumn comes to asphalt
and concrete meadows
bereft of the grandeur of death —

the pageantry dying seems
to tear from all of us —

that last stand in curling waves
and unstable beach, that last fist
shaking at consequences and time

that last kiss for the faded flower,
the last slice of sunshine flowing
down a sluice of maple trees

disappeared into the arms
of a rising moon singing
a lullaby to Charon.


Autumn comes to asphalt
like rain seeking cluttered gutters

shearing the everyday detritus
from our vision and our minds —

as empty cigarette packagers,
coffee cups, useless lottery
tickets, gum wrappers,
a condom mimicking dam

against the river connecting
birth and death,
celebration and celebration

a voice we hear and silence
although October wind rattles
the shutters of our eyes.