Rhythm is
the gist of it—I'm growing
up, and growing old, and
dying every minute.
In my pursuit
of freedom,
I am like an autumn apple falling—
to lush grass
in the cool evening:
with a blush, I will
ripen to my own destruction—
toward a gravitational certainty
which takes root and blossoms
into repetition,
reinforcement, and insulation—finally
toward abstraction. Until
I am no longer
like an autumn
apple falling;
now I am more like
the pattern
of an autumn apple falling—
repetition after repetition
leaving me soft and mealy,
leading, inevitably,
to falling
again in silly,
desperate love with
the routine—
by which
my point of view gets (hopefully)
smeared-out all over the
place—without me.
