Autumn As Carmine On A Collar

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.