Our days reach
the perfection of fruit
about to fall. Drifts of
sunlight pile against
the trees, and deep
pools of shadow wait
in their lee. Even
a plane taking off
leaves the earth lighter
for its departure. God
only makes so many
of these days. Back
when I was green
and tart, I slouched
out into my first: of those,
you only get one.
Raw-throated with
box-wine and combative
“love,” I squared up
to a rollie—determined
to confine my shame
to its hot narrow
wonkiness—and
glanced up at trees
whisking their yellow-
fringed skirts, just
because, like
gigantic toddler
bridesmaids— and knew
that whatever I did
I was made to fall
for this world,
and it for me.
the perfection of fruit
about to fall. Drifts of
sunlight pile against
the trees, and deep
pools of shadow wait
in their lee. Even
a plane taking off
leaves the earth lighter
for its departure. God
only makes so many
of these days. Back
when I was green
and tart, I slouched
out into my first: of those,
you only get one.
Raw-throated with
box-wine and combative
“love,” I squared up
to a rollie—determined
to confine my shame
to its hot narrow
wonkiness—and
glanced up at trees
whisking their yellow-
fringed skirts, just
because, like
gigantic toddler
bridesmaids— and knew
that whatever I did
I was made to fall
for this world,
and it for me.
