Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Things That Vanish in the Process

Kids in the playground. Sun
that pushed out of their bodies

an assortment of glee. A river’s
nakedness. Kites.
This suspicion that decay is a way

to ripen some sadness in the leaves:
the same leaving that snaps
twigs and allows for litter, copper.

The throat. A vigorous descent
of shadow, which is also severance.

Narrative. Song.
(A love.)

Even that sickness called Consumption.
Much less everything. But not the tree,
never it, no matter

how dismantled.