Jeu de Pomme

The season's first few leaves fall.
A zoo is loosed in the grass.

Mourning is in the molecules, gravity
of the asked for. Everything speaks

the expensiveness of a god. In him,
the beginning of disciplines.

In her, the silent riot
of being beside.

And bending into them, like doctors
diagnosing noise near the heart.

who is entering their intimacy,
claiming to be connoisseur?

Here I am among them—guards
and scholars, lovers, even the shy ones,

lions in the life—a snake in the peacable.
And the city is filled with those

I could carelessly brush. I have had
my edens. I have failed everyone, once.