In moon-hung
sky, I repeat the
sacrilege of forgetting
my autumn.

The detachment,
the unholiness, lacerate
the bloody marks.
Clouds do the scary things.
I panic. Something rings the bell
in head.

The trees go into
delirium tremens, drinking their own sap.
A new Milky Way was taking
shape. You don't want to
move the crescent.

October is ending.
The bridge will become icy.
You let go the unspoken
words to build a phrase, that
glitters like a sword.

I bear the loss. Accept
you with all the fringes.