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.