The woodland looks fantastic at this
time of year. (In the strictest sense;
a fantasy, a mere collage of every
smeared and painted word.) It begins
with greens; I'll spare the list I
heard, and only note: they're mostly stones.
The amber, though, is always
earth. There's nothing trapped, and no
beginning there; no tree to bleed,
no time laid down for bandages.
The gold's a cousin-rhyme to autumn
sun; we know it's dying now, and
yet it isn't gone. All down each
leaf, the shellfish-trickle runs;
one last imperious hurrah, some
bastard stateless church. So read
the book you bro...