Autumn
It is hard to not hate
myself, the self who’d rather
turn inward as dusk spirals
into its Tang dissolve. And isn’t ruin, too,
a thing to celebrate? I have ruined many
bad days by feeding them
to small fires. This season
the sparrows and grackles shed
their skins. I rake them into piles
for my daughter to detonate
over and over. Love that wears
plus exhaustion is why
a name is the most common thing
to write with a stick in a heap of ash.
