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Ammon Barker

Say it slowly and it closes
the lips together in a hum
like millions of miniature buzzes
from each mouldering leaf. Autumn:
the last vanishing lawnmower
lulling me into a slumber.

I lie still while the wispy-veiled
sky passes back and forth across
the moon’s avenue. Clouds exhale
as I inhale the burn of frost.
I am bedridden, dozing in
my apple-beer oblivion.

Today is when I realize my
alarm is still beeping and trees
outside are bleeding out their dyes
into the leaves while confused bees
bury their wings in the dirt.
I press my face in the black earth

And breathe deeply. Today I light
a candle for autumn and swim
in a sea of sweaters. I stride
through decorous cataclysm
rejoicing in my newfound loss
and call myself revivalist.