Autumn in an Almost-No-Town
There are eleven shapes of autumn
moving in the wind from south to north
exchanging forty names. Palm trees,
sycamore trees and poplar trees
speak at the same time of the same cloudy, dark
sky. Clouds hang, and fall like water falls.
They want to return somewhere. The river?
All of a sudden, the sky starts to circle
like a bamboo sieve sifting grains from the sunshine
above. The pedestrians walk slowly,
forever hungry, forever looking upward.