10/10/2016

​the leaves will be falling soon
like exhausted dancers
and only fire, snap of 
a thin match to newspaper
will hold back the colorless dark
in the season of sticks 
when the weary inside of me
complain of the sting of cider
the construction paper turkeys
adorning school windows
the empty bed and old sheets.
it will kill me someday, the fall
and I won’t even survive to 
take the first snowflake
on the bridge of my extended 
tongue.
​