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Poem	The Maple is a system of posture for wood. A way of not falling down for twigs that happens to benefit birds. I don't know. I'm staring at a tree, at yellow leaves threshed by wind and want you reading this to be staring at the same tree. I could cut it down and laminate it or ask you to live with me on the stairs with the window keeping an eye on the maple but I think your real life would miss you. The story here is that all morning I've thought of the statement that art is about loneliness while watching golden leaves become unhinged. By ones or in bunches they tumble and hang for a moment like a dress in the dryer. At the laundromat you've seen the arms thrown out to catch the shirt flying the other way. Just as you've stood at the bottom of a gray sky in a pile of leaves trying to lick them back into place.
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