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Sport 39: 2011
vi
vi
As Stevens your closest wordmate plied you,
‘There is no such thing as innocence in autumn.’
The old labels float, the brand names wear.
Poets inclining, picturesquely, to scuff at leaves,
call variants of red by their variable names,
testing the touch of what remains in mind.
page 56
‘So it goes,’ breath flaring through the lot,
a man with his fires smoking out the night,
‘Words to enflame,’ as he says, the fun of the phrase
refuting the by-heart preacher, ‘This takes care of time.’
One spark feeding another, the point of rhyme.