Now Halloween is over I think of autumn itself. “La Belle Dame sans Merci”–the season of language strange. Autumn who speaks the patois of the dead, who learned it from discarded long playing records, who waits for customers to depart the used clothing shops. Now she begins in earnest. Leaves fall during the night. In the morning the trees are bare. The sky settles for winter with a fast withering of fast clouds of fast grayness. Autumn with her wild eyes…
O Autumn will get you. She’ll make you hear old songs. You’ll hear them again as you fall asleep. The same songs you heard as a child when the old folks turned out the lamp. Autumn does these things though she doesn’t speak.
O the old familiar faces go.
I had been laughing. Autumn knocked.
The season is bound to traverse us.
S.K.
Planet of the Blind 