Episode 54: Carl Phillips, To Autumn
Poetry For All
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The Hour Is Threwd With the Weightlessness of Leaves
The hour is tossed with the apparent weightlessness of leaves when each leaf seems for once its own dream. When why should those be the only choices? What about joy and despair? What about ambition? If wild, I was once more gentle. There's a version of Autumn where the stars reflections on the river tonight look at one moment like freight thrown overboard. At the next, like signal lights cast up through water by a city submerged where the river's deepest. Holiness has no limits there, only to requirements. To adore what's hidden.
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