Those are really dry leaves at your feet.
When you stir your slightest, you set
a crackle's worth of old maps burning,
laughter to someone hard of hearing.

When you are no longer your brother's
keeper, how easy it is to get
lost; where you are the only one
let loose to prey out in the open.

Dogs scent you out but hold their furies;
birds defect when you cast your mercies.
You cry your name to the wild that has
nothing to do with its currency.

What chance have you got on some used up
moon? You know of a pool hereabouts
in dire need of a decent ripple.
You are so close to wishing for clouds.