the falling leaves heat our world like the sun's excited spores.
by stoop-kid
you came to me
by way of thunder or hurricane
and by the dandelions
you left in your wake, I knew
it was summer when you rained;
so much so, that I am still
wringing you out of my hair
and out of my t-shirt
in yards of November,
my damp sleeves reminding me
I could never entirely whisk you
off of my flesh.