The forest is a striated band of light, Cloak dark razzing at the root, Oxidized copper at the sunlit top.

A solitary ginkgo stands sentinel At the forest path that begins at The meadow’s edge,

Sloughing its last yellow flames Into a wind-combed air, before Iced jawed frosts make landfall.

Blue broncos whinny in the sky Flouncing their white manes In corrals hatched by airplanes.

And even though it is not That season yet, I feel the Death’s Head hawkmoths' grey shrouds

Opening in the night that Has long since fallen In my veined interiors.