Awake to autumn, I scissor mere wish from real
desire like an exhaust fan
expelling warm air
out of a greenhouse, as if desire were in mysterious
concert with cutting back, and talk of music
carried, among other things, a last music to travel
toward. Yet there is talk
touching gingerly down
in rain boots on the switchgrass of desire, and always
buffeting a wish for arrangement in a clear vase.
One will so induce another back from wild leaves
to wake once more, discovering
each stem extinguished
at its own angle, and you, alone with you again,
having travelled so far for this trim of bittersweet.