We are a dying season.
Awry prayers float in the acute air,
the breath of sleepless autumn
lank and bare
like an old ballerina
pirouetting for the last time in her
broken music box.
What do we pray to?
The pumpkin moon.
[that fat sucker that bulges through
each plum October dusk and hangs
there like someone’s faceless head,
listening to words that were left unsaid]
We are all pagans in the end.
Mama, close the shutters.
Morning [that wretched sensualist]
turns on a fire that doesn’t complement
a charcoal heart.
Just close them.
I won’t be able to see in the dark?
I already do.
We are a dying season.