Dusts of Clay

a fried leaf makes a joke of my coat

scraping the ground with force but no gravity

striking an illegal deal with the wind,

behind my back,

right next to me!

do they think i cannot hear

do they think i suspect but reason?

that train, long gone,

but i don't want to write this anymore

this leaf, it has no right

to be dry, and like chalk

to talk with the wind and live for a day

and make words with crackling dusts of clay