Field of Fall

You do need to live

through another disappointment, as a nail

has to endure a hammer. Rust

is a color—the slow confession of rot.

You tell yourself it’s okay,

but your body shrinks a little every day.

You hang it behind the door

and walk into the long heavy shadow

that sprawls beneath your feet.

If only you could just sink into it.

No. Pride throws you a bait

and you bite it with your bloodied mouth.

So you pretend you still have

something to give. Today

is Monday. A lot of rain. A maple shedding

its red. The leaves around the root

a carnival of what has come

to pass.