I am confronted, when I step outside, by trees
dripping with yellow & wet with black.
I have failed. I have spent my time not loving.
Or is there such a thing? Once, a man told me,
I have lived my life in a way that will end alone,
then moved my hand away from him, holding it
at my side as he dropped to his knees. In a cold
snap, a ginkgo undresses in one felled breath.
Is the anticipation of spring not also a kind of warmth?
I initiate sex with someone I do not love & pray,
a deciduous instinct, Please don’t let me use him.
What I mean is, Please don’t let me.
