by John Calvin Hughes
Go there, west,
the voice says,
there the red leaves,
a gate, a wall,
and wait.
How simple is that?
The leaves fly. They say
she’s coming.
Listen. Is that her?
That’s sunset,
not sunrise, if that’s
what you’re thinking.
What’s black in your
eye is only gonna get
blacker. And out there
gloomy night gathers,
dark versus dark,
if—
In fall, the dying god
dies, and burns just like
us. No. Not dawn.
No more dawn.
More bad news. You’re
hallucinating. Me,
I’m just up from the cemetery,
yes, that’s what I said.
Graveyard. Glowing,
her kiss still burns,
let me fix that.
You can’t see three feet
ahead. Sure, there’s always
a way, to her, to where
she is. Faith and bitterness
never fail. Hundred percent.
There it is. Leaves and all.
Go ahead. Don’t listen to
them, those red dead leaves,
and all the terrible things
they say. Riddles, at best.
Just go, listen. That’s her.