AUTUMN AS CARMINE ON A COLLAR
Autumn leaves
a light mark on a shirt
moving through what
smells like a field, but
may simply be my feelings.
I do not miss the evening
fires of smoky leaves.
Now these far off horn notes
trace my ear to claim
equinoxes can precede a rise
or fall—without looping
into a cursive name.
At least not in this key, anyway.
The moon may still remain
jealous of your glossy lips
and how they blessed me
while staying in constant ratio,
but I remain in my state
even as the harmonic minor
of your winged eyeliner
modulates to
a dominant chord—
and especially given
what was reflected
in your oversized glasses
—or why the handwritten music
of those sheets noted
a contralto’s vibrato
could season any broth
into a brothel because
seasons mostly wish
to fall into a deeper taste.
Carmine can’t of course
be the only shade
of autumn leaves turning
like handcuff keys
into a semi-annihilation
of the self—or
even a tiny taste of it
unless my facial expression
and your limbs relax
around what aroma, precisely?
Still, let’s not insist
Little Red Corvette
can‘t mean a certain lipstick
repeating on a private playlist.
Was there medicine in your glasses
and why did I doubt your choices
—given how I was amongst them?
The truth is my nipples
are vestigial, but perhaps
still sensitive to traces
of fuchsia on your fingernails.
Do you continue to deny
that swiping my merlot
hoodie just highlighted
the lone in cologne?
Even still, the overtones
of what was whispered
never climbed any scale
of longing—not mine
I mean—even while slowly
outlined in red pencil.
The collar of memory could mean
getting walked like a bulldog,
or perhaps pierced like a bull
with horns lowered
and nose flared,
as if all the black bulls
I’ve ever been or was
imagined to be couldn't find
any release from their rings—
nose or otherwise—
except in confinement.
Why did you peck your way
around my neck those nights?
Autumn leaves can fall
softly as secrets
changing hands or keys
opening a topography of touch
we probably need to map,
tho not as some gospel
chanted in a church or brothel.
You likely won’t be back—
falling leaves signal that, so
why ponder which chords
major or minor would
reharmonize your scent?
Yet not even the jay
which announces my name
could ignore this unfinished fifth
of distant train whistle
or how the leaves became
the light reign of your fingers
circling my kingdom of skin.
