[humanism]

what is it about fear

that makes the leaves fall so drily?

it is autumn, and your roses

are dying in the vase by handfuls.

the night comes in droves,

with less star than summer —

this is the way of cedars,

a feeling of cold like streetlights.

grey and violet, settling in the bay

like black sands are only a memory.

and rain floods america

from vegas to the brooklyn bridge.

even not speaking of love

gives me the sense that your body

is so close i could touch it;

i fist london air and kiss my knuckles,

and this is the nearest

to springtime i can walk.

so here, where homegrown terrorists

dress up like dying men

to stop trains,

i lay down and let sleep approach.