this very fall reckoned
everything loses its meaning under the
strain of redundancy.

I know this to be a perfect truth
but I still revel
in the images I keep sacred behind my eyes,

with all my autumns boiled down (a bare bone),
to a single one for me
that was warm crisp and altogether virginal-

my last one, as long as I live
for it is replayed as each monarch rests in my sight
and with each bird arrowed south-

and I tongue things spiced to remember
so I can go down with memory’s ship
willingly with collapsed and stunted lungs

tenderly warping it into something it never was
bleeding it dry of auburn reds and gold,
my attempts at keeping myself loved-
young.

but now what do those moments mean?
there have been many falls since that one,
nothing but I love yous on walls-

played back so many many times,
like warped vhs, warbling and clipping
the inherent meaning gone or completely scrambled.