This autumn morning, after the freeze,
They held a summit of the trees.
Motions were made and seconded,
And all the ochre, brown, and red
Snowed down. Each ruined crown agrees:
Today is a day for obsequies.
And since the colors haven’t bled,
Our hill is a map of colonies
This autumn morning:
Ochre, the land of the hackberries;
Red, of the maple—geographies
That spur my daughter to grab her sled
And raise those nations of the dead,
Scorning and smearing their boundaries
This autumn morning.
Le temps a laissé son manteau. . . . —Charles d’Orleans Rajon . . . turned in his best season . . . erratic as ever. —the Guardian, 2012 Rondo’s tour . . . will continue in New Orleans. . . . —Sports Illustrated, 2017
Time” called; a faked-out-of-its-jock, short-winded, sweat-drenched man-to-man (“the Garden crowd erupting . . . ”) ran for cover—high-tops freeze, limbs knock,
The Road Runner is a beeping charmer, blue-feather pompadoured, / hooked to his lusty habit of turning the Coyote into blooming / asterisk and spectacular dust. It’s believed that he has no soul.
