I continually put autumn
In my writing, discovering
How I prefer your lineaments
To any thing this rotting
World adores. Scholars tussle
Over standards, just elide
Them in the sentence
I call to you from pauses
On sobriety’s palanquin
I’m ready to climb down from
All that song saw fit to move in
Before your hum allotted
Spring’s abandon, winter’s
Measure, empty dishes
Scraped to wasting in a house
Of foreign sinks. Tell me now
Why I still come here
Preferring your appearance
To everything exciting
On a morning, digits
Stressed with message, pieces
Moved across a formal game.
Out of glare and noises
To make a wasteful palace
Lamps for burning up
The dying day, spent
On truant sovereigns
Slowly only breathing,
Breathing’s service
Ended serving you.