Automatic Autumn
Kasmene was covered with the red dust of the mistral
The little blue pins of the pine needles were latticed
Like some unfisted riot of storm-blown nightingales’ nests
Along both of her bare shoulders
as I brushed the day’s debris from each delicate slope of skin
I saw the flush of some excitement still there mottling
& mapping the degrees of desire arising on her flesh
As she watched the winds rippling the fragile face
Of the lake & I suppose
I should have taken her right then to the cool sleeping loft
So she could listen to the little nails of the rain starting
To telegraph & tattoo the beams & planks of the ceiling
But I was too shy to be so troubling of such beauty
Though it was the first & last of my young regrets to fall
– David St. John
