September

they have been

naming this

season after

the man i see

picking the apples

at the crown of my

family tree; naming

it with the

quivering hand

of those who have

spent whole

afternoons of their

childhood staring

into the sun,

and now see

a small black hole

boring into

everything they

hold in their

sight (those who know

there is no going

back).  that man bites

into the crisp

apples of this my

tree and crunches

them deliberately like

rocks--- they were

made for him and him

only.  That man

wears slacks with a

tear along the

left leg from a dog

that caught him

stealing apples from

another tree.

the waters are churning. 

the waters are coiling as if

someone had just

left them so
how to enter them?  
and

because they didnt ask for
names when we

applied for this

world, how to

go about introducing oneself

to the lights falling

and fading all around,

those burning

out to a certain

stillness i see

in the black dots on

the eyes of those leaving

the water right

in front of me