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

The sun fires down, oppressive
and I decide to have a break
from my slow trek towards the West and
take a table for a drink—

the conditions being so extreme,
I prepare to indulge myself,
order pizza and green tea
and toast, alone, my youth and health—

there along the subway wall
surrounded by the heights of old cuisines,
the best of ancient cultures crawl
to beg and sell from on their knees

to me, the *** of modern times
who orders pizza and green tea,
who stands to pack his books and lines
then, rising, slow and sluggish leaves—

yet, as I resume my heat-wave march
the décor reveals itself bit by bit:
a spattering of bullet holes—stark
shards from old slabs of wall been ripped

Heat slips up our shirts, sweaty beads of ***.
We twist our clothes, grabbing at flesh, groping for ***.

The hard squeeze and pressure is scooping out the soul—
Please, push it out, we want to be left bare and have ***.

Our skin is strung together, our bodies hollowed, dry;
Blind to the heat and the mess, we’re swept up by a blissful, empty ***.

The sheets, salted with sweat, are heaved off the bed,
Pillows gone, clothing gone, here there is nothing but ***.

Gasping and shouting, we purge ourselves, we are nothing—
I am pure and vacant, I’ve rushed my blood to my groin for ***.

And moments like these are strained and stretched.
Then, release, the moment falls from us as wet as ***.

Like sheets, pillows, clothes, the rest of me returns:
Too tired to move, I listen to our breathing, short huffs in the air after ***.