The season of lava and anguish
Is gone and you are nothing
But feathery husk. I sweep the porch,
A light spray of frost crosses
Rotting boards, and, there you are,
Everything on your face
Eaten, half-eaten. You have
Finally become the uncolor I desire;
If only gray or soot could fully
Describe this. If only I could have
Been there as each incisor pierced, sunk,
Your fairness giving in, your sepals
Bucking, the horror of the clouded light.

I stop sweeping to hold you.
Your crisp head warbles
On a tress of shriveled wheat.
I still feel nothing,
And with this unfelt loss I will edge
Into every fissure of autumn
Until the weeping begins.

First appeared in Permafrost


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