Autumn’s stories sooth me,
though they are not of good deeds
Her voice is calm, deeply clear,
etched with a fragility of presence.
Her mannerisms, bold or fluttery,
graceful as dance, she fascinates
We have nothing, no things, but
our self-created stories to make
a party, celebration.
She has returned to walk and muse
along the river beach, where I had
carried her in rescue. I had left
her to find her way home as she
promised, disappeared from
the approach of dawn.
This solitary place of association
aligns with merging time as place
of meeting. We are both immediately
pleased, a merry fortune. Valence fits.
Yet, this time is brief.
Though early in my night’s outing,
Autumn must soon be in her mother’s
sight, in their apartment, in her fixed routine.
To carry our tryst into tomorrow, I suggest
she walk me to my settlement, so she might
find me fixed in daylight hours. She shows
no disquiet at sight of my habitat, happy
to anticipate familiarity. We complete
the map, walk and talk like old chums to
As she departs from my world of night,
I feel high in transition.
I do not dare to preminisce.
Forcefully, I send my imaginings to mix
with memories that faithfully disturb,
chastise, punish with horror.
I know I must scourge myself, immerse
in Hell’s flame.
Pleasure must take its balance in pain.
I have assimilated this lesson over eons
of roaring ironies. Self-anointed thrashing
may hold the Gods’ at bay. There is no
escape from reminders of nature’s price.
Perhaps Autumn, on night’s reflection,
will save us both from further association.
Anticipation will dissipate; reason, repellence,
will set in, dispel fantasy of treasured friendship.
Or, perhaps, there is more to this story.