Leaves fall down as though poisoned,
airborne and halfway to sleep.
Wire buckets hold a night’s-worth, cordoned,
the autumn rust lines half as deep
as the overspill of dead red leaves.
The lightening branches are far from bare
though each separate death drags a pair
behind it, a constant rustle that breathes
above, below, at first alive with air
that crisps and hints before the muffle
of damp ground, slipslide like the ruffle
of a petticoat, bunched here and there
and later to be smoothed by a nervous breeze
as automatic as distraction and unease.