Raking

View PDF

I’m pretty sure I would consent 
to consignment in a hell comprised 
of raking leaves 
forever, 

the rhythmic, rustling pull 
being the only sound of tide this child 
of the desert has known. 

Banish me 
to the smell of crushed summer, 
faded from its autumn brilliance 
into an unassuming, 
curled, and papery brown 
on which is written 
the leaf-strewn laughter 
of every child who has ever lived 
among trees in October. 

A great irony 
that buried in this crackling decay 
is youth itself, 
revealed in the urge 
to jump 
kick 
and revel 
in flagrance.

Promise me this hell. 

Give me a falling— 
a wind-fueled dance 
in descent 
to an earthy oblivion— 

and I will promise 
to steal every scrap of warmth, 
get drunk on broken sunlight, 
and cheat winter 
of the delusion 
that it has won.