I put the seats
back in my
beat up Ford Fiesta.
Four drinks in,
my first bottle of soju,
a great night
with a new friend.

Something’s shifting,
healing,
and I’m scared
of what might come.
I tremble,
cold biting my skin
Like fire ants,
a lit cigarette
flares on my nails
with every drag.

Leaves are falling.

River streams whisper,
Unconscious dreams cascading,
Infertile, fall fades.

torn pigeon wings mashed on a sidewalk,

loath to square a foot.

clarity stunned to drifting, a pale blue

blotch of sky--evening's vignette.

the smoky mouth of a panting wolf, snaps

closed with a lick & a sigh.

the moon ails under an aggressive form

of illusion, smiles bravely for a slow

shutter lens.

as a moment says: I am in a clock, but not

of it.

these last leaves do something to keep

falling, even after they come down.