i have to be careful what i say. i might
inadvertently plagiarize autumn
with all its mists and melancholy,
beautiful in its ruin,

unlike our awkward demise--
me, waiting in a blue room forever,
you far away with your life slowly soaking
into time's blotting paper.

even the late butterflies are gone
from massachusetts. leaves have gone
to rust, house lights go on at half past four,
corn fields have become ghosts of husks.

all the things i longed to share with you--
you would have hated anyway.
stacking wood, shoveling snow,
not a soul in sight but you and me

and those nights bathed in the red glow
of the fireplace, music singing in our bodies
as we undressed with the howls of the coyotes
echoing in the hills and the moon
gathering her brood of stars--

all nothing but a dream wreathed in smoke