we woke up some october morning to


our dreams had bled straight out of our


and into the trees, golden rust painting

the leaves, & at last unable to contain itself,

my soul

s o a r e d

straight up above my head;

a dance of dizzying daydreams in the autumn sky and the


of being alive

(i wanted to ask you about yours,

but the weather

clouded your eyes and the soul in mine

when it began to

r a i n.)

tell me, did you start to forget yourself in the

reflections of plip-plop puddles pooling on the