Sob Story

…actual tottering that takes place late
in the season, the recently
capsized trees, lindens arranged so they protect
the settlements

the cities, the oaks slowly giving in to
paralysis
the uncultivated elms
never touched in certain places

the cumbersome loosely arranged willows
down by the pond
illusions sputtering,
it’s time for the weather report

that haunts us like
a death certificate, the icteritious following
like tiny rabbits
blowing everything on lunch,

a tidiness in the faltering
clouds we’ve seen before,
longing
calling a substitute to take over

the last bit of wallowing
we’ll recall on closed up nights
when the stars
like spittle stuck to your shirt

beckon in what looks like a new way, speaking
in a new way of dust
and alarms
playing tunes you remember from childhood.