Falling

Goodbye, Hello. It’s autumn,

we must conjure the oranging

to appease the calendar.

The poetry book is in free-fall,

lost in transit, does that count

and chlorophyll is seeping from leaves.

in the annual deathbed scene.

It’s all right, Ma, it’s all right.

Listen, hear the diva singing Greensleeves

in burnt sienna. Think sycamore thoughts.

The coral tree has gone skeletal.

and there’s a pumpkin pie in the fridge

but the book, the book. She sent the book,

named; These Days of Simple Mooring,

I wonder where that came from? To be

anchored in this harbor-hush, far from

the clutter/clamor of junk mail foliage

tossed, unopened, autumnal

bloviations fading into gusts. Dirge

of Democracy on the verge of.

Speaking of Michelangelo

who came and went

and came back again. Purgation, he said,

with his chisel, purgation of superfluities,

honing the marble, seeking, finding

the heartbeat pulsing.

What of that lost book? Maybe pages

are yet to be written,

words as gerunds happening,

leaves of Whitman's grass or Columbo

 saying through his rumpled topcoat,

There’s just one more thing

before the simple mooring.