Black trees rose upward, en masse,
like burnt hands grasping as they passed
among orange Autumn leaves and black soil
in clumpy mounds, as if aboil—
a molten river, sluggish, while fog floated
thick as smoke above the dead and bloated.
The dead swayed, adrift and careless while
flowing along that rural backwoods mile;
and, imbibing the ambivalence of October
with a mind embittered, yet sober,
I wondered what a cynic, given to Devilry,
should feel during his timeless, riverside revelry.
The sun clutched its planets like a possessive parent,
raising them with her steady warmth and guiding light,
but like Medea, whose witchy temper was always inherent,
she will eventually supernova in jilted spite.