burnt songless mourning

i want the me inside your breath, the breath inside your me. all this weeping is making me unsteady, the penance though, is only intermittent. brief bursts of ransomless grief, what do you want from me? and who snuck all this casual color into the frame, pane pasted works of fire, flame filled geometric figures, such instant radiance, truly, i am autumn throttled. you running with your head up to track what soars between garden top & cloud cast, a coat rack of feathers burns flat behind the cool glass, but not for us. absence permitted expression, extracted in fact, piece by piece. it took weeks to complete the absence in time to freeze.  hey you, burning behind glass, how long is your instant? is it too soon? everything alive is reaching, why aren't you? scriptless among the leaf fall, jacketed among all this undressing disrobing unleafing. wear your crown of corrugated bloom, don your shield of bark rust, i will find some tree to feel when i need to lean against some solid being. racing circles stirs the fallen, only to settle again in their graves. scooping tenderness, finches flee the burnt songless morning. yarn bombed torsos, dressed in stitches like some kind of suture exhibit, parade past with their cups & saucers, seeking seats in the jazz den. on the other side, limbs expose the sky's diagram, begin the skeletal exhibit. and so you take your chapel cast gaze and scrape its blue chalk along the artfully sharded beneath you. dissipated bodies, divorced from affection, float amid the muck. in the spite pond, you eat your shade cake, ingesting spadefuls of darkness as you squat inside your light, wearing your shade cape, watching the tiniest hand claw free from wound.