Perhaps another sort of autumn, then

Perhaps another sort of autumn, then
by Gideon Burton

Perhaps another sort of autumn, then,
as cool as dusted saffron, but inside.
As yet, the densities of blood collide
with tendoned, muscled, tightened breathing spent
to temper silent knots of fire. The phlegm
of thought compounds in roiling rivers wide
as night compressing hoping to a thing denied,
a swallowing of stony mud or stems.
The choruses of quaking aspens strew
a hundred mornings' suns about my feet.
A cooling chill unveils with windy skill
the agile amber shadows that I knew
before this dense desire, this dark retreat--
this viscous praying God will not distill.

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