Within the Word Autumn

--Dmitry Blizniuk

Someone walks within the word Autumn,

walks on high red heels,

one floor above,

one understanding above.

Someone stops at the window,

pulls the curtains open,

and secretly admires the suntanned horsemen of the falling leaves

that prance, rearing up on their hind legs, golden and flared.

The willow at the lamp post has lost its mind;

it mourns with bowed head,

dropping green saliva on the ants.

Then, later,

late at night,

the moon will come up,

it will be thin like an eyelid —

a teacher with a birthmark on her face

will take a crowd of stars-second-graders

on a trip above the night city.