Leafscape and Lullaby
Once the leaves had drained of chlorophyll,
sculpted themselves with rouge
and commissioned a warm light to gild them,
a few threw themselves down
to wash once more in this pooling
of a water most unlike rain. And you
cast yourself flat along the bodies
of the leaves, made yourself expansive
and did a wormy sort of work. Laying weight
on the film tension of water over concrete
and gathering the leafscape to its boundaries.
Where else might you bathe except numb
in a place of your own making? The day, it went
in serial: finding a torpor so passive
as to ricochet: passion rises and falls on cue: crash
and recovery pass in quickstep: then and done.
So you’re in a new place, an unscripted space, here
neither around nor along plotline, you’re loose
and you’ve lost it. Far away someone
is patting you, this hand lets its weight
guide you gentle: far away
there is a place where dreams grow
where they go round and quiet
and come down from the trees you’d left
them in to find you and let you stroke
their new teeth. You will maybe never go there.
It is not a place where eyes go.