It was when we bought a bag of leaves and entered autumn

                                                            as suddenly under-scored lovers:
each a teenager
to sink shadows into—our plan: eventually

leave fingerprints and get the house dirty.                     Lived-in.

Now I take two steps in neither direction, ask what here
does not remind me of her foliage: I evoke all day
that
                    lonely ghost writer,
                                      lovely boy of youth: myself
                                                        autumn deep breaths: myself
                                                                      among her hair like morning's clean fog: myself

leaning across the seat at sixty-eight miles per: myself

                              and her, with confessions of missing dusk
                    over me easily always        script of leaves         over me.

____

This is what happens when you take two poems you don't like, that are about the same girl, and smush them together. Actually, this is what happens when you take a million poems you don't like, that are about the same girl, and smush them all together.