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Wind
that rustle of footsteps
across autumn leaves
making my head turn
to stare at nothing,
the force tussling hair
and scraping fair skin
off the glycerin lake,
and through an attic hole
slamming the unwatched door,
which causes a violent flinch;
with loris-like hesitance
her doll face rotates towards
where the background noise
of night song has ceased;
that constant died when
the back turned away
from cold comfort ripping
reeds off the saxophone,
my instrument to dissect
her down to just a figure
of sex and neuron clay
she allowed to desiccate,
crumble, and float with
the particles of my whisper.
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