November
These anonymous
leaves, their wet
bodies pressed
against the window
or falling past—
I count them
in my sleep,
absolving gravity,
absolving even death
who knows as I do
the imperatives
of the season.
These anonymous
leaves, their wet
bodies pressed
against the window
or falling past—
I count them
in my sleep,
absolving gravity,
absolving even death
who knows as I do
the imperatives
of the season.
November These anonymous leaves, their wet bodies pressed against the window or falling past— I count them in my sleep,...
November These anonymous leaves, their wet bodies pressed against the window or falling past— I count them in my sleep,...