when all the leaves are dead, lit up
like an intellectual scroll.
I used to come here to break hearts
now I come to ponder the mystery of the poem
and send my tongue into revulsions.
More than that, I cup my hands for water
and pull insatiable tears out of my eyes.
Those vaporous, regrettable things,
which I admit once did see from the brighter side
of the forest, but the leaves have started to spiral
like white-ash embers that sting and crack,
and with enough green, comes dark.
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