Cleanup
They won’t stop. Leaves, slick, wet—
Curled around shrubs, blanketing
the funeral garden where ravens rest.
Why am I married to longing & lament?
I’d like to slap the face of my unseemly
devotion. Wake up. Don’t be afraid. Wag
your beauty like a dirty dog. Trees shed their pious
costumes. Wind unfurls & as if in ecstasy
more scatter to mock my loyalty. Yes,
cleanup’s messy, imperfect, a disaster.
My limbs hurt. My back aches.