Litkicks Message Board Archive


Posted to Action Poetry

you rage through the valley,
red-handed proof of passage
brazen in your flagrant aire

you can be heard
wherever shade has laid
its boughered head to cracking
over suffocated lawns

smelled, in every corner chimney
shrouded in the cloak of smoke,
you haunt the reminiscence of a childhood,
stalk with pumpkin lures and copper days

every morning is ravaged by your aftermath
barely recovered from twilight's prior glory,
the sky a quality not unlike newly dusted snowcaps,
crisp as pickle with numbing purity

October, there is little wonder my birth
ran so near to your womb, and through these veins
my most natural fluid siphons your gold beating;
I am autumn, all of me, never more fully awake
as when this curtain drapes its velvet limbs
over a land in sleep's deep preparation