Taste the russet flesh
of a season torn apart

while a king-sized elbow knocks
the world on its side.

While fire-blue rivers choke
on sizzling gold. While aspens

loose leaves in copper torrents—
their white trunks: emptied

quivers. Exit pursued
by a nesting doll

of former selves: the smallest
looks through crowberry eyes;

the biggest pricks her thumb
on a foliated arrow.

Forget to boil love
potions, mill windfall

fruit. Remember broken ground;
homesickness for bygone

landscapes. The kernel splits;
the nectar spills; the world

drowns in warm bronze poured
from a sacrificial cast.