What's Left

Autumn, Fall


How often now, raging weepeing for the days

loves gives then takes away, takes from you

the slightly chapped haid laid on one

you're pointing at a tree, and the voice

that breathes coffeeberry bush into your mouth.

The finger that taps and feathers your ear

but the giggle's gone before you turn around.

The sandalwood scent hanging in the room,

the auburn strand like a flaw in the porcelain,

the off-course nail clipping in the carpet.

The days eat into your stomach, knife you

with longing for relief from love

that you cannot leave or leave alone,

from its' rings of fire where you won't 

burn down to ash or be transformed.

You become them, and they keep burning

and have a coffeeberry voice.

          Listen how

                   their rhymes sing

                              the little deaths you live.


by William S. Di Piero. Di Piero (b. 1945) is an American poet, translator and essayist.


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