I. the September
the August past
a November rush
of cold air
warmth hast
forsaken these bones

every leaf has fallen
along the path
the young men plunder
or forever render useless
a waste of genius

and we sit as stumps
alongside tender shoots of grass
and striving pines
new
small as urchins here

we watch all the hustle bustle
to fro hurrying
and wonder
how those humans do it
looking at the orange

of the sunset
glow