Alone we scorch such lucid scion lump
and thump on a bilge. The windows too spin
dirty and struggle drops that is alive
a gleam across trouble views
to never make.
Now that fields stand between broom
houses and such that yards to separate. There
the girl thinking in every blend, in leave
a darken honey to hold. We
measure the orchard.
Sheets that blown on the small palm
offering in the shadow of a hawk, only to wait
on some further caress. I am running
from such intricate barrens. Only
within a present part
to define not with mine nor it not to be
of a risen action into which willows assuage.
Never to have spent with whom time
in the valley among what when we
say goodbye toward
where one we’d made already what is real
at an end. Even then it’s not of our act. We’ve
skim through intricate shades of bracken.
To be spent in the presence. To be much
along these barren hours.
James D. Autio is a poet and artist in Minneapolis. James' work has appeared in Yellow Medicine Review, North American Review, ditch, Poemeleon, Drunken Boat, and many other deeply varied places.