Long are the rhythms
of pain in the fall–
Single leaves
upon the wind float
then flip, I assume
them dead kin:
a tree frog a
thrush a
red squirrel a
monarch – my brethren I
saw them die every
day of June, & July,
now & again maple’s
fingers trick me by
and by until the rain
arrives in her encore
to blow them asunder;
to make forest litter–
bitter tannins dye
the Earth an end of
summer ochre.
Each drive I startle–so
sure I must have murdered
again, yet I sigh, lighter
from the knowledge:
in the fall, living things
take leave of me
And winter and death
in our evil city;
I rest until May; mummy
wrapped I endure the
suspended gallows;
breathe deep old fashioned
cemetery stones of
Civil War bones—my
skull is so cracked
& dull
& hollow.
Header photograph © Caroline Bardwell.
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