Orange leaves drift from the sassafras.
The blue sleeves of my jacket gather shadows.
What is released in me with Mozart’s last
moaning note? Is that my heart I hear
thumping spasmodically? I breathe
lightly, the smallest breaths. I lick
my lips. Salt hunger. Last leaves scrape
down percussively, forced to let go.
Red oaks shine, pin oaks, pines,
sweetgum leaves like wet red stars.
