your words were folded and
secret as we walked
i remember the leaves
on the path
each as thin
as an unsent letter
they rustled under
but only lost
the smallest pieces

discarded
for the thought
of a newer bud
the leaves spend
their freedom in
idle ways

there's a river that
swells and declines with
the pull of the seasons
in the warmer months
the cows from the meat farm
push through the old wire fence
to drink the water from
the other bank

some nights i
used to be very small
the trees would make
fickle shapes
squirming against
my window
as my mother and
her friends would chatter
loud and hollow
like the falling
of a plastic cup

you buried the dead bird
we found at the bottom
of the ditch near your house
pine needles rested over
the small grey mound
slender and burnt orange
you taught me quietly
about ghosts as i
crouched on the ground
making crisp snapping sounds
with the needles gathered
in my hands

there's a difference
between the shape
of your hand clutched
around the base
of your tall glass
and the way
the light through the window
falls beside your feet
as thin and as innocent
as spilled milk

the sky was a flat metal
he could smell the dusky
smell of a coat discarded,
damp and full of dust,
on a bench as he passed.
and, even now, as
the wind pulled the hands
of his scarf around
in frantic circles
he thought of the quick flick
of her hand as she tossed
a cigarette, half-burned and
orange with inward fire
onto the sidewalk