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.