Is that so true,
As to slip into one another and politely
Fall and fail and fly and
Absolutely: a necessity to draw upon those
Honeysuckle thorns that lash against the watercolors,
The hornets and the plush blankets, ashy incense.
The black fabric is drawn across blood and gold,
Sickening with waxes, Rome and Fahrenheit 451.
No, those woods are tainted, don’t go there-
Not to the boathouse or the bunnies or the moon,
Or another day filled with stairs and Our Town; river and showers,
The beauty in juxtaposition and the hills and the
The Chapel, blanketed in the autumn-
To scrawl and fail and fly-
You have to fall.