Leaves on trees bordering  
            the trail glow yellow 
bright brilliant tunnel 
            before falling. 

You should know 
            the name of those trees 
that light your path  
            two weeks each year. 

Depression. Inadequate name 
            watery dish soap 
cheap hair dye 
            that flopped on the market. 

Slow leak of joy patched, 
            re-patched, glue dissolving  
into unexplained grief, patch bubbling up 
            peeling off the hiss of press.  

            Cave or tunnel?
Tunnel suggests exit. 
            Cave, dead-end darkness. 
The inadequacy of the name, the lack 
            of healing. The flimsy  

backdrop of a cheap Western 
            collapsing in the desert. 
Yellow canopy 
            hyped-up heaven 

light through leaves 
            but not light itself. 
Not life itself, but  
            a cold path— 

            blown-down leaves  
slicken with wetness. 
            If you could touch 
the leaves, not just 

admire them before they fall. 
            If only they came  
when you called 
            and you could slide 

them on like sleeves, 
            a suit to greet  
the coming snow. If 
            only/ if/only/if/— 

a bird cries, hidden in those trees,  
            a bird that didn’t fly south  
stuck here like you  
            to wait it out.