Red Autumn

Autumnal, Rooftops

It’s one of those years.

Walking barefeet in the heat
will bring autumn spinning to your toes,
and clouds of cotton will collect
at your knees, refusing to let go.

As you walk,
the leaves will smell secret,
heedlessly, unashamedly secret,
the green veins pulsating as you pass,

letting off something like disaster

again,
something like love.

You will stand again in a room full
of red curtains, corridors of chalk
dust, blackboards and diagrams
of strange birds, with bodies that you can
see into,

you will tear again the first ladybird’s wings,
set fire to the trail of crawling ants on the
floor, roll vainly about on the bed,
attempting crazy somersaults
through the warm air
in sweat-soaked underfrocks,

watch the first spot of red
appear on the bed at dawn,
turning brown at the first finger
of sunlight.

you will tell no one this evening

At the edge of the sprawling roof,
no one but you will look up at
that absent sky where
the red kites litter
the dirty blue.

as ever, you will tell no one

but
those eyes

those eyes across the glasses of plum drink
with autumn twirling disaster on its little finger,

letting off clouds of secret sap
the green of it swirling and
sinking with the day,
hitting the edge, on end,
ridden with sudden sorrow,
at your throat
words will appear
half-forgotten, like
kites and crumbly flowers,
dry litter in the air between.

At the edge
of something like disaster, heedless,
you will sense
again, something like love.

you will tell no one this evening

but that absent sky
at the edge of the roof
suddenly ridden with sorrow,

all translucence,
all red,
her little fingers in the photograph
against the setting light, will not let you go.