Michael Akillian: Another poem about colored leaves

falling from the morning skies of New England,
of frost like a small white bird climbing
the panes cut with isosceles light,
of pumpkins stealing from the star-dark porch
in search of vines,
but it isn't so.


This is about a woman who paints herself red
and goes out to inflict
upon herself the onus of our attention.


It's about standing here
while she, flustered but adamant,
circles the yard collecting
what she can manage of departure.


And it's about how much I love this loneliness,
heavy as the weight of fallen leaves
and slow as the slow of sap that huddles
towards the vague bus constant promise of the dark.








This poem is part of the volume entitled "The Eating of Names", published by Ashod Press, 1983. It is reprinted here by kind permission of the author.