what the sun does in autumn

there is nothing to be written

about the thinning red rebellion

of an alopecious maple. one

can only watch the patchy leaves

the balding skin of graying sky

filling six or seven seconds of

loss. bare branch, vacant vein

a skein of empty nests, a toss

of words upon a wind, cold

and damp no longer held back

by any season; sky, a thin and pewtered

rim that flipped the sunny-side up of sun

and broke it. leaking and diffuse it lost

its dandelion colour, found now only in

a dream kept warm by the brown suede

of a favourite coat, corona-tight against

sun’s core. if conquered sun could carry

weight less than its own, it would be that

of candles; of dozens of spoons—concave

mirrors to signal sister stars—and the trim

round tips of shoelaces that, like Apollo’s

reins, start a journey with the past falling

By LM Rochefort

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