The pile of leaves needs not correspond
with autumn. All that’s required, dear user,
is an internal coherence—among the leaves.
You will need to burn, I’m sorry, your life
down. And to outlast October you will have
to sell your songwriting credit to a lower-
case “i,” which looks up at you like a lover.
Which is to say, “i” will not be coming
with you to the Christmas tree farm. Anon a
non sequitur approaches on moonback, as of
an adorable idea. Our grandparents offered
to pay us to rake the leaves. We refused.
We took up coke and cut our teeth in text-
ile factories. The baby birds are bats to me.
