dead broomsedge hissing
in the ridgetop wind
even the old motel
is younger than me
and am told to bury them in the yard so they’ll ripen.
and joined its life-like relatives on the wall.
on the Underground map uneasily, wondering how such ideal points and lines can add up to anything resembling the surface.
Migratory as an eel, unstable as molten metal wavering between stone and water, I dreamed myself adrift in a forest of the dead, one more leaf returned to the forge of life, green blade that does not crumble, however fallen, in any autumn that we know.
patina sending tendrils
toward the earth
between footfalls, in a caught breath? What tic or tick of rhetoric makes the ground so unsolid wherever we are told we must mind the gap?