The trees have left leaves aplenty
for me to rake
they curl and tense and dry
I claw them all away

Little piles form of my work—
hills to dot the suburb-waste
the bent tips scratch and click
across the concrete face

Of a faded summer’s deck
and I think briefly of her hair
the brownish tint that would not rest
but flashed like an auburn glare

These ******* leaves weigh nearly nothing
my breath slinks out in rasps
then settles on my knuckles’ clenched skin
a sweaty bead slips through my grasp

It creeps to the bottom of the handle
drips—**** my luck—into the leafy mess
into the paper pile—
I cannot look, just rake what’s left

Forming more and more heaps
of crisp and crunchy detriment
which rest, unassuming, amid the scenes
of quiet days that I have spent

While sliding into sepia
in the slim space between house and fence
which could be her house, then she could see me
and I would dive among the leaves

Of my finished mess which stands
at last, a brownish jumble
tribute to my deadened fear
collected on my lawn, as if to humble

a cold fall regret
and I look, questioning, down
to picture pushing you into it
where stiff leaves’ stems may hurt like thorns