| We haven’t learned | the right tense: |
| the cliché of red leaves | falling, your choice |
| of hazelnut cold | foam atop my cold |
| brew, that dead squirrel | we mourned for |
| because despite | the newborn tents |
| we couldn’t have brought | her back. Why would |
| she want to? Live | for a while |
| then die, like crunchy | leaves, like us, whoever |
| we were, doing planks | for hours yet |
| still forgetful of lip | balms, brochures, sprinklers, |
| & bandaids. You | talk about Cicero |
| like a childhood | friend who punctuates |
| time amidst NYT | Connections, long |
| lines for ginger ale, | cyclical walks on which |
| you must imagine me | happy. The imperfect: |
| I’m more used to | holding thoughts than |
| holding scents no | matter how many |
| mornings were drip- | ping into my iced chai. |
| The compound past: | Past Lives did |
| not speak to us because | our present has been |
| a Trap. The near future: | we are going |
| to start more sentences for | page-long body paragraphs, |
| not conclusions. Now, | to talk about fall, |
| its leaves, that squirrel, the | bench on which we paint time, |
| we need to let it leave, let | them fall, let her die, |
| let it rust—you said it, | yesterday, with two |
| silent screens, no watches, | |
| just 2 a.m. stars, | |
| you had no end | in mind. |