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.
