ode to the sweep of the fallen,

to the quiet hammocks buried under leaves.
in my scantily clad tree i keep watch over an aerial memory


















that pulls on the others it's stitched to.
leaf cleaving to leaf.

in the shadowy underfoot.

november,

so spiked with punch.


















now the beets are boiling, cheekbone bright.

i wish we were required
to idle and bask

at least one hour a day,

i wish i could distill one ounce of perfume
out of everything before it escapes me.