Where is the feather light
pile of leaves to fall
into?
        Instead, I find a brisk descent into
        a pitch dark night of the heart.
Here, there are only
Monday's and the 9-5, forever,
                                                     with the
                                         pitter patter
                                                  of someone else's fun
                                                                ­                 in the other room.
I tear at the red dirt, screaming,
to find new growth.
    but find only
                           bones.
I rattle my cage, and spit at the lock
singing a hymn
for an autumn
                          in black.