the night once a deep blue sea has turned like a black crayon covered by film, watched and waxed, fine filtered fog finds the morning
wet dripping in gauze, the sun is hiding, the moon is too
leaves once soft and supple are tough and aged their lives cut
too short soon they will turn and fall jumble tumble
they will be raked and bagged and burned and buried and jumped into
not necessarily in any order the little shelters built only for a month will be
crushed and regenerated into the land building soil and garden and hutch
like a movie set and just as expensive because after they fall they are useless
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