Peter Buller
Leonard Schwartz
Poetry New York
Ashbery Lipogram ("Summer")
April 4, 2015

Autumn

A familiar sound haunts this air
As if a translator tracing wisps finds
A lost origin. Not dissimilar is that instant "turning back,"
which coils back to visit truth again, looking onward.

For now, shadows satisfy this thirst
of our ignorant minds, split by an old oak's roots,
roots of woodlands, splitting paths just as sound
pours many cups, drinks for all of us.

A dilution of clarity follows
that looking-back. Instantly, it transforms oblivion
into nothing small, harsh, or insignificant,
only tiring, akin to inhaling dust clouds,

Which along with pitiful constructions building upon
our scaffolding of thing's past: autumn, its crimson foliation,
null of illuminous contours, boasting such classic smirks,
worryingly carrying out instructions word by word--

So much for mourning--and spring, a chirping
of tiny waking birds, that sing with capricious motions
to roll Sisyphus' rock out of absurdity.
Spring tasks us to go down stark stairs

To tall, unforgiving cliffs. Is this not it?
This dark abyss, that social normalcy,
or did my path wind through a vanishing point? And that vision
mirrors your own, of an abyssal gazing back.



Spring

A gust prowls through porous airs
dissipating lost books twixt walls and floors
vacating this ruin. And an unfolding clarity "turns up,"
as though unlocking its wisdom, donning again its cloak.

For now the shadows will satisfy our
wilting vision, splitting it among an old oak's roots,
burrowing roots of a woodland, split as much as living
is for us, and amongst all things.

A dilution of things follows
all prior thought. And at this point, our dying
is no small or harsh or insignificant factor,
only fatiguing, a gong's unsounding ring,

And also all our tiny monotonous constructions build up
an imagination of our past: spring, that flourish of pink blossoms,
distant souls linking our acts, smiling warm and happy,
carrying out instructions word by word--

No point in mourning--and autumn, a flight
of idols falling across our sky, that points with vast motions
to an absurdity that grasps us anyway.
Autumn tasks us to fall down as from a dark willow

To a narrow log along our way. This is it, right,
This hard warmth, my lust for no variation,
Or did it vanish with that dawn? And that shadow
Mimics yours, dancing icily with both of us.