Fall in the Valley

It's not the leaves that strike me,

but the memory of choking.

Perfect writer, perfect reader,

I drown in autumn,

in tender piles of gliding pollen,

that drift into my lungs

and filter through my organs,

wadding to each other

at the bottom of my spine.

Everyone around me suffers the same

but their pain is distant,

and mine is intimate. 

We cough in unison.