(An imitation poem in the style of Lucie Brock-Broido after reading The Master Letters)
The taste of a one-day autumn is that
Of road salt, crisp smoke; there
Is a you & a me & a me & the season
Surrendering to frost. Something red is falling
From your branches, gathering. I am not
Inhabited like you, but neither am I bored
By worms or beetles mulching channels
Through us–I am bereft of writhing
Things. Would that I could writhe. Your leaves–
I'm sure–pile differently from beneath. We are losing
Track of the one-day Autumns cut short,
salt scattered; I do not remember
The first bite taken at your roots–Quickly!
Cut yourself in half & count the rings.