I was conversing

with the blossomless canes

in the hot fall air

the weak breeze 

that briefly jostled 

us all gone I guess

I loathe this trellis 

said the shrub rose

And we these velvety lettuces 

said the munching bunnies 

sculpted for maybe 

eternity into the stone 

bench I sat on and late 

I walked away from them

with the no-smell

of leaves blotched brown

and black hypanthia that once 

cupped blooms but now 

nothing and the piebald moon

sweating in the sky not 

knowing if I wanted to run 

to the cold river or the cold 

river to run to me

—to us, really,

and scour our cages clean.