You gorgeous gothic autumn withered firs

put on the perfect play for these uneasy zephyrs

round this o’ercrowded theater I attend.

Marvel as I push past

too many poems for this tired eye to render —

crowd maple feathers with their rockin’ letters

crying for ’ttention on these building signs &

uncomfortable cars, their neck-ache news screws tightened —

akin to pallored skin on fretting lightning —

a swoonful, sure, but omens ill inviting

as the smoke spread by my unspoken words

creep up to kill the sky without a thought.

Too much abundent love will smother us

with floods o’ sun. But I don’t dare stop —