It starts in the toes

of a ropey morning,

the passing of summer,

the open-eyed pastures,

a lounging in stasis,

done. Your toes,

and they say useless, say

done. And they say how well

you alienated the lot of it-

pals. The scene... you did it!

Became one

with the absolute inward,

silent hour- it carries you,

alone as a craft. Bears

weight, the days like  

puffs that end in an echo,

as Sugar Puffs or

clouds with their silver 

slices, your snacks, 

your snacks, some 

frisson of sadness, O

toes-

what will you do once the

Autumn descends upon leaves 

upon the leaves? They

hang on your every word