Light unloosens itself. Space slackens. A figure of a shadow I have conjured before anonymous eyes. Lapping up the waiflike bleakness of their elliptical faces.
I must teach the trees to let go of autumn, and relegate spryness to the hearth of cold without merit, this slow, claiming mutiny with its face-oval peering through windows multiplying lovelessly, a crunch of a leaf, suchlike, flourishing in peerless company. Before me, the sound of footfall preparing to make sense, a rotunda of bell – that movement of somebody done for, so ****** the scald welt of ******, the belch of the world like a pore clearing its squalor. Or the toppled verdigris of gull.
Autumn’s greater extension, the abeyance, smilingly a facsimile of crowds – its roads adorned with laburnum singeing through the morning’s cauldron, a waft of bald terrain inflamed, drawing with absence a crippled drip of rain back into the world’s dim address.