in the city,
dead leaves skitter across
rough concrete, hushing me,
whispering out my past

and future—brown bodies blown
without the sturdiness
of a branch or root,
cast aside by cold, arid wind,

dropped,
with no one to claim them
but the young, bright children
who like to hear their brittle bones

collapse beneath booted heels,
and the white, indifferent snow
that covers—
buries the broken pieces.