a piece of descriptive death
Non. Mai. MCCLV

Walking home, the rain was cold little darts
On my arms, and I strained to name the smell
Young dandelions were quivering beacons
In the sodden, sweet wind; bright as crayons
Their elders, balding asymmetrically
Stabbed out of the grass in one last, futile reach
With stems sheened maroon like dirty organs
And sour mulch profaned the living air

These are the days sun-shunned, when the
Trees scream in their cool, empty language
In gusts that whistle into winds