Falling Honey-sun-day’s Perspective

Between bold last leaves
seeps the play of sun. 


Afternoon autumn, still supporting
leaves: their greatest glory d'composition
I cast myself without self
between, on and through and so
all around. 

Rhythmically, slowly (in innocence
of every good word
beginning with "b")
Riding up--through,
the bicyclist: 

        "le merveilleux peuple..." 

Rhythmically repeating on the
rotation of a wheel. So many people
present, each gesture
mouth and breath a brute
nascent eliciting of last leaf scent. 

within Mont Royal's canopy
softing around my honeying
light, this--Languor moved to goodness
Heartedly-well betraying glory
        artists' mimicry in cathedralic glass)
but conveyed through
these tenuous leaves. 

I cast you--yellows of pollen (real filaments, but not fiery
and absent nonetheless); cast in reds that
vines only give in drink; cast in
greens brash for their reluctance to die. 

And bluesending the glory
into peoples' fleshy pores, veritable
and expanding each one's capacity
to the cusp of Glory itself. 

So it is that six summit girls
finally come garbed in
glorycolour. Garbed like people past. 

In dance, snapping fingers and
pretty existence-denuding cries,
their state of colour
Roma soul in Roma dress.
These lives: once neatly severed
before all the good "b"s were

Today's Awe is the
teleology of reluctance.

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