Echter Herbst

Northbound through Jersey where the rumble strips

glitter in the evening gloom, I heard Nina

sing apocalyptic. The petrol smell of artifice,

centrifuge Manhattan pulls creation like electron

spin. The inspiration of the semi-truck spirit (keinen

Friede, sondern ein Schwert)—

Bring down power, Lord,

power

Power, Lord,

bring down—

Your high-built walls were too few to keep out

the fox-eyed Christ. Had you not heard?

The kingdom is like a mustard seed.

I watched the long, slow spiral of

martyred leaves glide down over fences

and furrow lines. Like a chastened thing,

I took my rest in shade, matching
minor keys to harvest months.