in the woolen twilight, we walk home
the short way, through yards of dead grass,
careless stubble. we pass
peeling birch trees, their hollow sketch
draped with cliché leaves and dried originality.
I drop back as you continue onwards, wet grass
framing your feet like pictures. you pass
into shadow and hesitate, double-back (for home?)
for me. your pace oscillates and I sketch
my importance to you by it. how original.
the sun has set and the lamplights sketch
mindless circles upon the sidewalk, points of origin.
if I could paint, it would be with the colors of the dead grass;
even the stars are blindfolded by hazed ribbons, past
help. we are pollution, we are almost home.
the birches lean over us and shake out original
leaves. the lamplights' spotlights spark me as we pass
through and electricity touches even the weary grass.
I cover my eyes and pretend I'm a star, home
grows closer and my assent is merely a breath, or a sketch -
which is to say, I never agreed to this pain; originally
we spoke only of sorbet sunsets and a comfortable home,
but you point out that buds come before and after the passing
leaves, new things kill old things, brown grass
begins green, dead is preceded by born, and your feet started off