If I could occupy myself in the same way
as the November leaf will fall
from dry weather steady branches
to damper days on the ground
and gain the certainty of such a short two-stage difference
made in the purpose of seasons
through the migration of waters
by the resolution of the winds;
not facing the disappearance of myself in prolonged detachment
nor over-reaching my needs against a flattened surface
but suggesting the appearance of time in a repeat movement instead
trying to settle the panicking of my roots
and the loosening this causes:
which opens the ground, bears me to my collapse;
so finding, somehow, a single distance between standing and falling over,
Then, perhaps, next November, there would no longer be a leaf to fall.
A beach State 