On to Dusk

I come from the other
end of autumn
where black and white
frames get mistaken

for winter. But my mother birthed four
children—one for each season
in order. My brother came last
to claim the legitimate

snow and ice. I was born to bury
leaf memory in premature white—a virgin
covering before car exhaust
gets to it.

Green Wave

If I could reduce the number
of times a day I believe

I’m a fraud.
Could understand why

some love objects get
labeled the Symbol,

others the Story—never
the End. If you could still

talk, would you tell me
the truth? Did you think

I was a virgin? Could you tell,
or did the blushing

camouflage fact,
heighten fiction’s glow?

If death has not rendered you
speechless, please spill

your signal over this chorus
chanting me home.