Suddenly, a gust,
wind and sonnets all
fulfill the sweet sanctions
of an old orange nightmare.
Songs sweeping, stripping fences,
fallen auburn leaves
have no place
in a midsummer night’s dream.
“Grow your way back into
Father Autumn,”
space whispered, gently
by the lobe of a bronzed ear.

Fin
is not a body, the same way
skin
is not a soul.
A soul dances.
Dancing is a form of explaining
no hate could resolve or reveal.
It has no tongue that lies,
no teeth to break,
no mouth
to kill.

You can’t dance,
it’s not a skill;
you can only fall,
like a leaf
or a bill.