Autumn was first seen from the
Lens of slumber,
Frozen on the lane of thoughts
For the living-dead.
Framed on the loose, huge secretions
Of essence,
The womb of Autumn, slack and grey,
Let fall the perched maple leaves,
(Borrowing the yellowness of northern
Diseases and the redness of a soutenuer's eyes —
A russet of assessment)
The confetti of rhyming seasons.

Autumn is a wayward season.
With her blooming confetti,
Sex reclines on the brain,
Bringing to the fore
The accoutrements of sexdom.

The portal of Autumn opens
And widens, forming raucous
Sterling sound to remind us of the
Promise of Autumn —
Lonesome — and
Drenching the spittle of lust.