First I felt I was wearing a wig.
Then a rat's nest.
I felt autumn pass by outside as
I put on my brassiere.
I tried to imagine what it was like.
And compiled the tracks in my head
For the leaves to gather on.
Nine songs over the phone
And crayola's marker margins on the
Diary.
I don't know why I didn't weep,
Perhaps it was because it was like the
Newspaper felt,
With a sense of candle-wax detachment.