Diminishing Form #17

Arranged there along the wall
tight carapace and brittle
too loose for such high cheek bones
yet ready to be knotted
again and again and again

Those leaves falling
without potential for tea
and dry crackle underfoot
suddenly deadly

Strange violence in bright sun
brings us all outside
to count things

When she says “ouch”
I fall down

I found my lucky rock right next to my nose