Autumn, drying leaves,
fallen apples rotting underfoot,
sullen teens attending
to bitter, underloved instructors.
The horses at their paces,
steamed breath pressed out
from heated tunnels into colder air,
like a dying dragon's last smoke
flowing
from within buried caverns.
This bitter liver,
swollen, the dull right ache.
Lager and cider -
wet blankets for burying hope.
Into
this forever fall -
crooked fingers,
bent like empty branches,
to your empty shoulder -
It is so easy to forget
how intimacy fled,
and hid
amidst the mountains overhead.
Writer Moe 