Leaves,
like the fill of pillows from a
copper childhood
…
fall
like feathers from the
voids of expired stitches.
…
Feet
imprint their thin selves on
the splayed out maples, next to
…
tracks —
left behind by
misunderstood wild things.
…
Hear my stump speech,
given from this stump.
…
See my carvings on the trees
distorted; we’ve all an expiration.
…
Time.
It’s always Time who
comes down from the branches and
jabs at our throats, who
sucks on our cough drops, then
spits them out at our feet.
Composed 12.30 and 12.31 of 2019.
