by Evan Warren
If I could speak in any language
it would be the one winter flirts with
before kissing the fall with its first closed-mouth snow.
But it would all be a lie.
Sweet talking the p-coat armored
hipster hair crowned girls of autumn
I’d chase them around under fading trees
until the reddest leaves
bury me in flame.
Under the pyres of autumn,
under skies like shallow fire
I would soak soft flesh like summer,
reversing the hungry seasons,
giving girls who so far have only known
the slow crawl into frigid arms
ashen skin, and post-immolation recline.
and that would replace love for me,
that could be love for me,
dead leave blood chroma,
like embers in volcanic rain.