Wednesday, September 21, 2022


Look around 
the park grounds 
near the end 
of any September—

the pale leaves 
all look similar 

and utterly 

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?