by Tom Bajoras
My sap thickens at the calling of October;
Dry leaves dance in
This is leper land:
where bark-skinned bodies creak,
where the midnight tempest rakes
wrinkled face and snout.
This is skull land,
where we breathe gray air through silver fur.
My soul tries to crawl out of me;
it screams in words that I don’t know.
From the falling leaves
come faint replies, echoing the futility
of this season.
And yet I would gladly trade a sack of acorns
for a pocketful of little stories, even if they aren’t true.