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.