And Knows Not Me

When the wind knocked, I latched my bolts
And wrapped myself in a tepid blaze;
As the leaves began to slither through the autumn gails
I snagged them with the fork-toothed rake,
And harvested accumulations
Of their airy weight
In rows of slumping plastic bags,
Then made them burn.
Fire is the element of fall;
It mixes boiling light
With forking pitch. The pitch
Becomes the clouds, which gather in the fundament
And frown,
And foam with subtle voice.
Season of harvests, hear my own:
You brought me nothing new, but something frail and cold
That aches.