BLOOM

As leaves fall through
the last steeples of light,
someone falls through me. He tastes of old seasons,
damp and mulch-heavy.

Let sway! Scatter the spore
of first hair-cuts, mowed lawns.
What is dead beneath
spreads its carpet of heat.

Let sway! Each leaf is a skin
shed-off, already ancient.
My father's hands, brown and spotted,
are leaves spiraling toward a stop.
Let sway! Let sway!

Withered man, you do not
speak for me.
Oh God, let this be
the first bloomings of amnesia.