The last of the oak leaves
spindown drunkenly as if they
were in the hydraulics of
mechanical flywheels.
When I rake them up, I will
summon the ocean surface
out past the breakers, bits
of spray will splash my cheek—
collaterals of sound, the sense
and touch of remembrance.
When I rake them up, blisters
will put lava stains on the
inside of my hands. Sunshine
from a yawnin’ distance will
shake loose its last warm rays,
tilting towards an outer rim
in a cycle even stars can’t stay
as forces in the heavenlies.
