Wine In A Coke Can
Piles of leaves rise, pillow up to the height of mailboxes,
to the arched backs of Great Danes. They spill onto the
sidewalks and clot the veins of suburban streets.
Everywhere the gasping organs of superblowers,
leaves zithering down dusty paths. The long finger-
nails of rakes brush earth’s tarnished surface.
A cold-hearted acupuncturist. The wind shakes a freakish
grass-stained gibberish from the trees. The October
of music. Leaf piles keep rising, wanting to become
a permanent fixture, like a hill, a hill named after the mayor.