the park grounds
near the end
of any September—
the pale leaves
all look similar
and utterly
replaceable
once they've fallen
from their
homes in the limbs;
they cannot wonder
how they got here,
and there is no answer
to the question "what for?"
But what about you—
the pale, foolish person
who's still holding on
to the arms
that once sustained him—
do you still think
you'll use your hunger
before your
hunger uses you?
Is that separation
looming, after which
you won't
exist? And if so,
aren't there probably
one or two
things around here which
you still need
to do?
