Autumn, 2015

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I hold the young man’s warm left hand And hear his question, “Am I dying?” His father’s measured “Yes.”

The leaves cleave to their branches. From the south, light dazzles down And brandishes the shine of bleeding

Purples, reds and lucent yellow. A tendered beauty. When wind strips them from trees,

They scatter luster through the neighborhood, The very air suffused with gold. The young man shimmers in his suffering.