before it was a metaphor First scrape fat from skin, turn to sun what never felt light, in vitriol bathe open wounds, sear to
several turns down the road the maple stood leaves believing in leaves as if the world belonged to leaves and I remembered what I’d
Is to burn them all and all at once in a mountain heap the night before the rains roll-in and rot their crisp color
The ruins of the day—scraps of sun strewn among the hollows of the sand—are soon undone by night’s hand. The way the wind can