Laura Solomon
Tidy, tidy
grows the winter
heart and I
who spend my time
wasting it,
no longer
on a face
or a voice,
in rooms
sad and sane,
but dead on a tree,
determined to be left
unblown,
after autumn’s
red barrage,
yelling at people
all the same
and brown leaves
which grow as well
as once
green ones did.
