To Autumn
Autumn runs like children.
Her winds elevate a boy
till the tips of his heels barely
push the ground.
Though he runs not forward,
but for the sake of youth.

Autumn crawls on all six.
Like a green, unknown specimen
on my window--his brittle bodice
idolized. He savors time, searching
for a mate, though not for pleasure,
but for the sake of being.

Autumn is an eastern woman
of the orient. With sliding
eyes and the forehead of a saint,
revealing a plane of bronze
cleavage, she makes nubile roses
charming. Though not for beauty,
but for the sake of ripening.

Autumn floats a mermaid.
A bitter-salt-water-daughter,
she floats bloating, dead,
with breasts hanging like a crescent.
A Solstice suicide: though not for death,
but for the sake of ends.